At a first glance, the South Shore commuter train from Chicago to South Bend appears quite modest, more practical than poetic. It is a train that delivers people into Indiana, and many of them continue by car to small Michigan towns along frozen lakeshores and snow-lined cornfields. Places where families gather for holidays and where winter seems to hold an austere kind of beauty. The South Shore train doesn’t have the bells and whistles of its wealthier sibling, Amtrak, where a pricier ticket buys plusher seats, warm cars, and a café with coffee and pastries. The South Shore’s older tracks and cars occasionally creak through winter; the ride is spartan, drafty, and prone to delays.
And yet, the route holds a quiet kind of magic. It moves through scenes that feel lifted from a Midwestern winter painting: small-town depots planted at the center of local life, both humble and more extravagant front-lawn Christmas displays glowing in the early dusk, big bulbous colored lights strung across porches, and a dusting of snow settling over fields beneath a deep gray December sky. The passengers include those who left and now return for the holidays from new lives built in far-away places, as well as those who barely left at all: prodigals and faithfuls sharing the same winter ride; visitors stowing gifts into overhead racks, keeping their coats on for warmth; locals returning from a day in Chicago, sliding into familiar seats without ceremony.
It isn’t luxurious or curated. But it carries a feeling—something quiet, perceptive, almost reverent. And that is often where wonder begins.
Sure, seeing celestial wonders like the Northern Lights or ancient marvels like Machu Picchu is a fast track to inspiration. But across the country, holiday travel in unassuming places also offers opportunities for awe. Perhaps it’s in seeing the changing contours of a relative’s aging face, a cousin’s child who suddenly shares the unmistakable family smile, collective dancing at a winter wedding to a cheesy but irresistible pop music staple, the small generosities exchanged among strangers—a held door, a shared charger, a patient pause in a crowded line. None of these moments are extraordinary, yet each has the power to reorient our attention. They remind us that awe often arises not from spectacle, but from recognizing meaning in the everyday.
Psychologist Dacher Keltner, one of the world’s leading researchers on awe, describes the emotion as deeply physical:
“Awe is an emotion that you feel—spine tingling, tearing up, lump in the throat, a warm chest—when we encounter vast mysteries that we don't understand.”
Awe may be triggered by vast landscapes, spiritual experience, or profound acts of kindness. However, research shows it also emerges more subtly: the walk around one’s block, the glow of a porch light in early winter, or the familiar rhythm of returning home. Keltner’s international research mapping the “Eight Wonders of Awe” finds that people commonly experience awe not just in grand destinations but in moral beauty, nature, and collective moments—many of which occur in ordinary life.
Social psychologist Pelin Kesebir, whose research explores humility and meaning, finds that humility redirects self-focus and broadens our perspective, enabling us to see ourselves and the world with greater clarity:
“Humility and awe are natural companions because both involve a re-scaling of the self,” says Kesebir. “Too much self-preoccupation is like walking through life with tunnel vision…Humility widens the aperture.”
This widening of perception aligns closely with the way awe operates during holiday travel. When we move through familiar spaces—airports, highways, childhood neighborhoods—with heightened attention, we sometimes catch glimpses of beauty we have long overlooked: the way snow settles on an old fence, the warm chaos of relatives gathering, the face of someone we have missed.
Even brief moments of awe have profound social benefits. According to Keltner, awe increases generosity, strengthens connection, and brings people into greater alignment with shared purpose. Awe quiets the self, reduces rumination, and reminds us of our place within a larger whole. As Keltner puts it:
“We can find awe and lift our souls anywhere.”
Practicing Awe
Writer and podcaster Kelly Corrigan, speaking at A Night of Awe & Wonder, shared her perspective, which especially resonates during holidays. It is a season where we return not just to the places, but to relationships that formed us. Awe, she reminded the audience, begins with attention:
“Attunement requires real commitment—a shrinking of self. Be small. A redirecting of all attentions. Look closer.”
And later, expanding on the cost of inattention, she added:
“If you don’t notice, you don’t get to keep any of it.”
Awe, in this sense, is not merely an emotion. It is a practice—a way of seeing the world that asks us to listen more closely, soften more readily, and observe with reverence, the people and places we move through every day.
“Paradoxically, feeling small in relation to something vast doesn’t diminish us—it expands us,” says Kesebir.
Which is why it’s hard not to think of the final scenes of It’s a Wonderful Life, after George Bailey is shown what Bedford Falls would be like if he had never been born, and finally understands the life he does have, and the community of people who love him. In one of cinema’s most joyful reversals, he runs through the snowy streets, greeting everything he once took for granted.
It’s all the same town, the same imperfect banister, the same drafty house, the same familiar faces, but awe has changed the way he sees.
When George returns home, the loose banister knob that used to infuriate him pops off in his hand again. This time, he laughs and kisses it. He calls out for his children with astonished gratitude and clutches the tiny talisman he feared had vanished forever: Zuzu’s petals.
“Humility allows both awe and meaning to arise—not only in grand or novel settings, but in the most ordinary and familiar corners of our lives,” says Kesebir.
Yes, the Taj Mahal or the Grand Canyon can inspire awe. But sometimes awe lives much closer than that—in the creak of a familiar stair, in the people waiting there who love you, in the everyday details that glow only when we pause to notice them.
Awe in the ordinary.
Awe in the home you already have.
Awe in noticing.
Awe as a shift in perception.
Awe in the exquisite ordinary.
Alene Dawson is a Southern California-based writer known for her intelligent and popular features, cover stories, interviews, and award-winning publications. She’s a regular contributor to the LA Times.
