A Sense of Wonder

A sense of wonder that feels like a quiet rebellion against the ordinary is a flame worth protecting at all costs.

I wonder on a lot of things. Some of them as trivial as why certain songs get stuck in our heads or how we can't tickle ourselves despite knowing exactly where our fingers will land.

None of them revolve around certainties or others' expectations. But quite recently, I've been a bit lost with regards to finding that balance between being a responsible adult and preserving my sense of curiosity.

I've learned this childlike curiosity is one of the main contributors on what keeps us feeling alive, though sometimes it manifests as a restlessness that others mistake for dissatisfaction.

Lately, I've been a bit… disconnected, as if the world has lost some of its color.

As a child, I was more or less a walking question mark. Why does the moon follow me when I walk? How do fish breathe underwater?

Back then, the world was perceived as a playground of mysteries and I explored it without much care for what anyone thought. But growing up has a way of dimming that spark.

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Responsibilities pile up, and suddenly, life feels like it's about having all the answers instead of savoring the questions.

Expectations—mine and others'—start to dictate what I should care about, which leaves little to no room for the in between.

Ask Questions Later

In some ways, what we call "growing up" is really just the process of trading wonder for certainty, and having answers before asking questions.

When you're an adult, you're expected to believe that maturity means knowing rather than wondering, which is all well and true until you realize how little anyone actually knows about anything.

For instance, some of the most vibrant people I know aren't those who have it all figured out. Far from it, these are the beautiful misfits who've maintained their capacity for awe.

A neighbor of mine in her sixties will pause to watch snails navigate sidewalks after fresh rain, asking me whether I've ever considered how miraculous it is that these tiny creatures carry their entire homes on their backs whenever I happen to see her during that moment.

I aspire sometimes to somehow adopt this bewilderment as a core way of life.

I think being perpetually curious is the most radical form of aliveness available to us in a world that constantly pushes us toward certainty and conclusion.

When I seldom pause to notice the way light transforms ordinary dust into floating galaxies or how human voices somehow find harmony even when singing different notes, there's a certain flicker of recognition at the back of my mind that feels like finding a piece of myself I thought I'd outgrown.

More or less, tiny acts of resistance amidst a world that would have me believe I should be "too busy" or "too practical" for such things.


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