My toddler loves dandelions. He wanders to them, one after the next, gathering their wispy heads close to his lips. Sometimes the seeds stick to his wet lips as he tries to scatter them with his breath, to blow and spread their wild beauty on the breeze. He delights in this simple act: gather and spread, gather and spread.
The ancient philosophers, too, recognized something of what it is that allows for such simple pleasures. It is the wonder of being, the amazement that there is anything at all when there could just be nothing. The world is, and that fact alone gives rise to awe.
It takes time for children to develop qualities like strength of character and virtue, or the knowledge of when to yell and when to be quiet. The ability to finish a plate of peas. But children never have to be told to wonder at the world. That is innate, something that we lose as we grow, if we’re not careful. The ability to wonder at bubbles as they float past and pop, to giggle as squirrels chase each other through trees, this is a gift our unhurried children have in spades. This is the same gift that fuels the joy children take in running at full speed across a field and scaling the tallest of jungle gyms just to slide back down again and again and again. They know that the world is good, and they know how to revel in it.
Dandelion seeds blow by and float away. They settle unseen and take root. They must, because no matter how frequently my son picks all the flowers in sight, new ones pop up to take their place. Their bright yellow faces turn gray and frail, ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Yet this delicate nature is not a weakness; it is precisely this falling apart to be blown on the wind that leads to so many more flowers in a field. Because this bloom gives it life, many more will grow. I see the beauty in the scattering of seeds, a metaphor for the central spiritual truth of the cross. I can analyze, contemplate, and ponder. For all of my thoughts, none propels me forward to snap a stem and blow wishes on the breeze.
My son needs none of this reflection. The sight of the dandelion alone is enough. It’s existence signals the possibility to participate in and enjoy the goodness of God’s creation. The fact that it is is enough for him to respond.
How many chances do I miss in this life because I pause to wonder whether or not they are worth taking? I analyze rather than assume the goodness of the world. I calculate cost and benefit. Rarely do I see the unknown through hopeful eyes that anticipate opportunity. More often, I am a little anxious about preventing all that could possibly go wrong. This is an important mark of adulthood, being able to think ahead and plan wisely. But when worry eclipses our enjoyment of life, a treasure has been lost. When Jesus invites us to consider the birds and the lilies, how God meets their needs through no effort of their own, he might also be inviting us to consider our children. They laugh, they trust, they revel in the goodness of the world. I know too much of the world to live a carefree life, but growing up doesn’t have to mean the death of wonder. Wonder is innate, but it can be lost for lack of use. And so, I lean forward. I take hold of the stem. I bring the flower to my lips, and blow.