Childhood was when we marveled, when no thing was too simple or too small to wonder at: the veins of a leaf or a butterfly’s wings, grasping at the air; the sinewy threads of a buttonhole; the earthy must of a decaying tree stump. As children we fear only what we do not know, while yet reveling in the earnest and insatiable thirst to know more. The world is vast and rich with incalculable and incomprehensible detail, from the pebbles that sit motionless upon a sea of lifeless concrete, to the gulls that soar far out over an immense, dancing sea, to the rows of symbols affixed and ordered in books from which our mothers and fathers read to us.
When last have we taken notice of the indecisive ant that zigzags left and right and circles round in rapid pace at our feet? When last have we stopped to examine the carbon frenzy of air beads growing out of the very depths of a glass set before us? When does our humble appreciation for the sublime art of creation languish? Why does it languish, and with it, the innate humility that once gave vigor to our thirst for knowledge – knowledge for its own sake, and not merely for the sake of utility?
How humbling, how novel, how endearing, and how joyful it is, as a parent, to have our children pause our anxious stride, to remind us that we, too, are children in a vast expanse of magnificently consequential design.