Sugar Words

What if the child in you and the wisdom are the same voice?

You find yourself surrounded by questions that don’t seem to stop. What comes next? Why doesn’t it feel the way I thought it would? Will it always feel like this? It’s like being on a floaty in the middle of a river while having a deep fear of water. You hold on tight, scanning for trouble, worrying about what might happen if a branch pokes it, if a fish bites it, or if a duck of improbable size crashes into it?

You get so caught up in what could go wrong that you forget to notice the gentle rhythm of the current, the sunlight that dances on the surface, the birds calling out to each other, the drifting clouds, and the reflection of trees on the water. You forget to marvel that once, long ago, there were no floaties at all, and now you’re here, in the middle of the river, defying history with plastic and air.

Of course, it’s easier said than done. Especially when everyone around you is chanting some version of “figure it out,” “get your shit together,” or the shinier line, “align your reality with your potential.” It feels like being surrounded by people on their own floaties, all talking over each other about that dreadful thing called time passing. In that endless chatter, how are you supposed to listen to the birds?

That’s when you summon the stubborn child who goes out to play even when the adults frown. You bring out the tantrums that start with why? and refuse to stop. They will never find what you will. This is when you bring out the part of you that does things simply because they sound fun. Be the child who picks up a toy, finds some cardboard boxes, tapes them together, sits inside, and wonders what might happen. And while everyone else is worrying about getting it right, all along the child is learning and acquiring all this knowledge that feels like being guided by the “wise you” without feeling like she would drown.

The wise you want you to chase mystery the way a child does when she looks at her reflection in a spoon, laughs at the way her face bends, and then runs around the house finding every other surface that does the same. She giggles her way into understanding.

Mystery explored through play always brings you closer to mastery.

But when you chase mastery for its own sake, it all starts to feel heavy, like sitting in a classroom where the professor is explaining concavity and convexity, and you already know that you will forget it two hours later (which is not to say you should not pay attention in class).

When you are having fun, your ego steps aside. You are not trying to ace a test, or build the perfect business, or get the job everyone thinks is cool. That’s when the child and the wise one merge, because both ask you to be curious, both urge you to explore, both invite you to frolic through the unknown and fall in love with the finding of what you love and what you don’t. 

There’s no montage here, no grand orchestral moment of triumph or loss. Just tiny discoveries: “Oh, I don’t like this.” “Huh, maybe I’m not meant for that.” No tragic music when things fall apart, no confetti explosion when they do. There is only devotion to the child who keeps asking why and how until the giggles return.

So do it for the giggles. Do it for the wonder. Do it for the child in you who has been waiting for you to trust her.