Reclaiming Childhood Wonder

I used to sing to the wind. . . .

As a kid, I’d stand outside and let my voice carry into the air, watching how the trees would sway, feeling how the breeze would shift. Adults would smile and call it imagination, but I knew something they’d forgotten, the wind [R E A L L Y] was listening. It was responding. We were having a conversation.

What I experienced then wasn’t fantasy. It was embodied knowing in its purest form. My body was registering connections that my mind hadn’t learned to dismiss yet. The rhythm of earth beneath my feet, the subtle dance between sound and sensation, these weren’t games. They were dialogues. They were my nervous system recognizing that I wasn’t separate from the world around me, but woven into it.

When Wonder Gets Buried

As I grew up, something shifted. In classrooms that prized logic over intuition, I learned to suppress this relational intelligence. Wonder became “distraction.” Sensitivity got labeled as “fragility.” The institutional world taught me to trust my head over my gut, to value explanation over experience.

But here’s the thing . . . . . . …. . [ the body remembered anyways ]

Even when I stopped singing to the wind, some part of me held onto the memory of that cadence. The warmth of sunlight on skin. The quiet intelligence of watching things grow and decay and bloom again. These sensory memories became my refuge, proof that there’s a way of knowing that comes before thinking and goes deeper than words.

The Dialogue Never Really Ends

To reclaim this dialogue now isn’t about regressing into childhood. It’s about returning to a more integrated way of being, one where I’m shaped by presence, not performance. Where my body gets to be the sage it’s always been.

That little girl singing to the wind wasn’t being naive. She was practicing ecological intimacy, understanding instinctively that the self isn’t separate from the world but created through relationship with it.

Now I know these moments, these conversations with the living world, are gifts. Not just to me, but to all of us. They remind us that being alive isn’t just about surviving; it’s about noticing, feeling, creating. In those spaces where symphonies emerge from silence and the wind answers our songs, we find ourselves not in isolation, but in harmony with everything around us.

Your body remembers too. What dialogue is it waiting for you to pick up again?