When I was a kid, I walked a dirt road to the school bus stop each morning with my mom and my sister.
One morning, I kicked a rusty can along the roadside while my mom and sister walked hand-in-hand behind me. Suddenly, Mom called out, “Susan, watch out!”
I jumped back.
She pointed to the ground.
“Don’t step on those, honey! Those are fairy caps.”
I looked down. Acorns covered the roadside. Some still wore their little caps. Others had lost them.
Mom was right. They were exactly the right size for fairies.
“Where are the fairies?” I asked.
“They live over there, and sometimes they fly so fast that their hats fall off,” she said, pointing at the woods that fringed this dusty road, and continued walking.
I slipped a fairy cap into my pocket and hurried to catch up.
For years afterward, those tiny acorn caps became treasures. They inspired adventures in the woods, stories, and hours of imaginative play.
Looking back, I realize my mom was giving me a gift that had very little to do with fairies. She was teaching me to see the world with wonder, perhaps without even knowing it.
As my daughters were growing up, I shared the story of the fairy caps with them. Happily, they seemed to embrace the magic with me! We collected them on walks and tucked them into our pockets.
Today, my girls are grown women. But every now and then, one of them will hand me a tiny acorn cap she found along a trail, a smile and sparkle in her eyes.
No explanation needed. We both know exactly what it means.
A small piece of childhood wonder has survived another generation.
Recently, I ordered two books I have wanted to read. One is by Donald Winnicott, who wrote extensively about children, play, and emotional development. The other is Walden by Henry David Thoreau, a classic I somehow never got around to reading.
When I clicked “Place Order,” I felt excited.
The same thing happens when I wander through the library in Georgetown, DC, a favorite pastime. I never know what treasure might be waiting on a shelf. I love history, and this library is filled to the brim with it.
I felt it when I began writing my own stories and certainly when I published my first solo book.
I feel it each time a new book launches into the world.
There is something hopeful about opening a book for the first time. A sense that somewhere inside those pages may be a new idea, a new understanding, or a new hero.
At nearly eighty years old, I still feel that excitement. And I’ve decided that’s a very good thing.
As we grow older, it’s easy to believe that wonder belongs to children. We become busy. Practical. Responsible. We focus on obligations, schedules, and the endless stream of troubling news from the world around us.
Yet I wonder if curiosity and imagination remain just as important in later life as they were in childhood. They sure are for me.
Wonder invites us to keep learning. Curiosity encourages us to ask questions. Imagination helps us see possibilities where others see only limitations.
Wonder reminds us that there is always more to discover.
I think that’s one reason I enjoy spending time with children. They haven’t forgotten how to be amazed. A cardboard box becomes a playhouse. A pine tree becomes a secret fort. An acorn cap becomes evidence that fairies have passed by.
The beautiful thing is that we don’t have to leave that way of seeing things entirely behind.
We can still pause to notice a bird at the feeder or a squirrel up to mischief.
We can still delight in learning something new.
We can still carry a few fairy caps home in our pockets.
The world can be hard at times. We all know that.
But wonder keeps a small window open to beauty, possibility, and joy.
I believe growing older does not require us to outgrow wonder. Maybe it’s asking us to protect it.
And if I happen to spot a fairy cap along the path, you can count on it that I will probably pick it up.
For the Sake of Children 