As I was driving through a residential neighborhood, a new song came on the radio.
Suddenly, I felt the urge to accelerate. I had the strong desire to hit the gas pedal and let it fly.
Remembering where I was, I regained my wits and stayed at an appropriate pace. But I was perplexed about my need for speed.
You see, the song that threatened to turn my foot to lead wasn’t a high-energy tune. It was a classic rock song. And there wasn’t anything obvious within it inspiring me to unleash my inner NASCAR driver.
But as I broke down the song in my mind, some hints started to bubble to the surface. The tempo of the beat. The volume of the bass. The relentlessness of the vocals.
In a vacuum, each of these elements wouldn’t amount to much. Their impact wouldn’t be noticeable.
But when you add them all up, they had me itching to do a bad thing.
Not long before my would-be speeding violation, I was at a friend’s wedding.
This wedding happened to be held at a Catholic church. I’d heard rumors of Catholic weddings taking a bit of time. So, I arrived early and thumbed through the program, looking for clues on how long I’d be in the pews.
On page 3, I found some sheet music. It didn’t look like much — a bunch of lines, symbols, and flourishes. But I could tell by the way the notes were spaced that these hymns were going to be slow-paced. And given how many of them were on subsequent pages, I knew I was going to be in this church for at least an hour.
So, I prepared for the long haul. I focused on my demeanor and tried to act as if I belonged.
This was going to be a challenge. For I’d only been in a Catholic church a handful of times in my life. I was a fish out of water, and I was faking it until I made it.
The details of the sheet music I’d glimpsed at drifted away as I tried desperately to fit in. But as the hymns it documented came to life, I found myself fighting back tears.
The choir was angelic. The congregation was enthralled. And through it all, time started to fade away.
The sheet music, the wedding program, the sanctuary — on their own, they didn’t seem to amount to much. But the whole seemed better than the sum of its parts.
These are but two examples of a phenomenon. A phenomenon of a finished product outshining its individual elements.
We’ve long been accustomed to this. We’ve seen it take shape when we visit Disney World or Universal Studios. We’ve felt it at Cirque du Soleil shows. We’ve even experienced it at local parades and firework shows.
It’s a magical feeling when everything comes together just right. When place and time sync in a manner that speaks to our soul.
We can be intoxicated by this feeling. We tend to chase it relentlessly, investing time, money, and emotional effort into rekindling its flame.
And yet, all too often, we ignore the underlying elements of the magic. We fail to consider what makes these experiences hit just right.
We have no interest in seeing how the sausage gets made. That is, unless it keeps us from speeding recklessly through a neighborhood or ruing the length of a church service.
We’re just fine paying the piper to deliver these experiences on a silver platter. But maybe we shouldn’t be.
Dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, I stood behind a fold-up table. In front of me was a Paper Mache volcano, a jar of baking soda, some dish soap, and a bottle of vinegar.
I was 8 years old, and I’d never been so nervous.
My instructions were straightforward. Pour the baking soda, dish soap, and vinegar into the hole in the summit of the volcano, watch the concoction erupt, and explain to passers-by what was happening.
This all was standard operating procedure for any elementary school science fair. But as I waited for visitors to come by the table, fear and doubt started creeping into my mind.
What if I messed up the concoction? What if it didn’t erupt as planned? What if I failed to describe the experiment properly to passers-by?
The tension was palpable. I started to sweat.
But then, someone did come by the table. It was Go Time.
With shaking hands, I poured the ingredients into the volcano and watched it bubble back up like a witch’s caldron. My fears were thwarted; everything was going to plan.
Yet, instead of relief or elation, I felt profound wonder. I couldn’t believe how these simple ingredients had created something so magical.
Sure, I’d been told this would happen, and I’d been given the recipe to make it so. But experiencing the entire process firsthand blew me away.
Ever since that moment, I’ve thought critically about nearly every process I’ve encountered. What are the elements that go into it? And how can I tweak those to optimize the results?
This thought exercise has helped me make smarter decisions with my finances, my nutrition, and my career. It’s helped me be less wasteful and more deliberate.
Perhaps then, I shouldn’t have been so surprised when a job assessment told me I thought like an engineer. I might not be a tinkerer, but I certainly have the mentality of one.
I firmly believe that more of us should have this trait. That we should feel a sense of wonder not just in the finished product, but also in the myriad parts that comprise it.
That obsession with the underlying elements gives us more than a peek behind the curtain. It gives us agency.
We can exhibit understanding, empathy, and appreciation for the process. And we can remain better suited to switch things up if that process goes haywire.
In short, we can make the finished product more than the sum of its parts. But only if we sweat the small stuff and consider how everything comes together.
So, let’s spark that sense of wonder. Let’s remove assumptions and remain inquisitive. Let’s dive into the journey, not just the destination.
If we can do this, we all stand to benefit.