Something strange happens through repetition. Something hidden breaks free. We know there is magic in ordinary, simple, everyday things. The first time a child learns that what he sees and hears and experiences, every day, is an illusion containing deeper mysteries, is when he discovers the strangeness of his own name.
One day, for no reason, he repeats it until reality is subverted amid one constellating, spontaneous day dream, when, suddenly, his own person and the name are no longer one thing but two distinct halves to one whole with all the mysterious space, by necessity, in between. After this, he might even start to believe the world is more than what it appears to be at first glance. There is mystery in everything, from now on.
It’s a discovery we might learn in childhood before the drama of hormones and school and career and the random emergencies of adulthood drive us from it. But it’s easy, in theory at least, to get it back. Do anything over and over again, every day and the same thing will happen to you. There is some kind of magic in repetition.
Teddy Roosevelt had a bug collection when he was a kid. He neared something approximating genius. I like to remember that. I like to remember the natural mystery of existence, all easily relatable in our own lives, and seen by T.R. in every critter he encountered. There is no such thing as a mundane task when done with awareness, commitment and a thorough curiosity.