The Sense of Wonder

Rachel Carson
A child's world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that, for most of us, that clear-eyed vision — that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring — is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence with the angels who are supposed to preside over all children, I would ask that their gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life.
If children are to keep alive their natural sense of wonder without any such gift from the angels, they need the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with the child the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in. Parents often feel inadequate when confronted on the one hand with the eager, sensitive mind of a child and on the other with a world of complex physical nature. In a mood of self-defeat, they exclaim, "How can I possibly teach my child about nature — why, I don't even know one bird from another!"
I sincerely believe that for children, and for parents seeking to guide them, it is not half so important to know as it is to feel. If facts are the seeds that later produce knowledge and wisdom, then the emotions and the impressions of the senses are the fertile soil in which the seeds must grow. The years of early childhood are the time to prepare the soil. Once the emotions have been aroused — a sense of the beautiful, the excitement of the new and the unknown, a feeling of sympathy, pity, admiration or love — then we wish for knowledge about the object of our emotional response. Once found, such knowledge has far more lasting meaning than mere information. It is more important to pave the way for children's desire to know than to put them on a diet of facts they are not ready to assimilate.
Even if you feel you have little knowledge of nature at your disposal, there is still much you can do for your child. Wherever you are and whatever your resources, you can still look up at the sky — its dawn and evening beauties, its moving clouds, its stars by night. You can listen to the wind, whether it blows with majestic voice through a forest or sings a many-voiced chorus around the corners of your apartment building, and in the listening, you can gain magical release for your thoughts. You can still feel the rain on your face and think of its long journey from sea to air to earth, and wonder at the mysteries of natural selection embodied in the perfume and flavour of a fruit. Even if you are a city dweller, you can find some place, perhaps a park or a golf course, where you can observe the mysterious migrations of the birds and the changing seasons. And with your child you can ponder the mystery of a growing seed, even if it's just one planted in a pot of earth in the kitchen window.
Exploring nature with your child is largely a matter of being open to what lies all around you. It is learning again to use your eyes, ears, nose and fingertips, opening up the disused channels of your senses. For most of us, knowledge of our world comes largely through sight, yet we look about with such unseeing eyes that we are partially blind. One way to open your eyes to unnoticed beauty is to ask yourself, "What if I had never seen this before? What if I knew I would never see it again?"
What is the value of preserving and strengthening this sense of awe and wonder, this recognition of something beyond the boundaries of human existence? Is the exploration of the natural world just a pleasant way to pass the golden hours of childhood or is there something deeper?
I am sure there is something much deeper, something lasting and significant. Those who dwell, as scientists or laypeople, among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life. Whatever the problems or concerns of their personal lives, their thoughts can find paths that lead to inner satisfaction and to renewed excitement in living. Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for the spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature — the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.
I like to remember the distinguished Swedish oceanographer, Otto Pettersson, who died a few years ago at the age of ninety-three, in full possession of his keen mental powers. His son has related in a recent book how intensely his father enjoyed every new experience, every new discovery concerning the world about him.
"He was an incurable romantic," the son wrote, "intensely in love with life and with the mysteries of the universe." When he realized he had not much longer to enjoy the earthly scene, Otto Pettersson said to his son: "What will sustain me in my last moments is an infinite curiosity as to what is to follow."