We don't know what we want

The naivety of childhood certainly glamorizes the mundane activities of the adult life, or perhaps it is the tainted vision of an adult that refuses to remain enchanted with the commonplace. I was realizing tonight how I am no longer fascinated with “playing with my laptop”. Now its function is homework; no longer merely the sound of keys being pressed, giving the excitement of a “grown up” at work. When I was young, all I wanted was to play with the obligations of adulthood: write fake checks, pretend to sweep the floor (with or without a broom), take care of the kids (even if they really were dolls) and pretend to be too busy for idleness.

Now an adult, I often wonder if I had met my adult self when I was a child, what I would think of me. Would I envy myself at how lucky I am to have grown up, or would I be disappointed at how disenchanted I’ve become with all of my former dreams?

Even still, I cannot wish to once again be a child. As a child there was a certain glow about the world but, at least for me, the world was still very small. Even with all of the innocence and credulity a child possesses, it seems that a child’s love is limited to the size of its world.

Today I think I do not desire to trade the expansion of my world and the growing realization of otherness that comes with time and growing up, just in order to once again be fascinated by what has now to me become ordinary. I do however wish to better experience and understand the humility and faith of “childlikeness” in a way that asks “Were a child an adult, what would be enchanting to them?”