Through the Window of Wonder

A Child’s View of the World

The sun was barely peeking over the rooftops when Lily, age five, pressed her nose against the cold glass of her bedroom window. Her breath fogged the pane in little clouds, and she traced circles into the mist with her finger. Outside, the world stirred to life—birds called softly from the trees, a mailman in a bright blue jacket walked by, and the neighbor’s cat perched on a fencepost like a tiny lion surveying its kingdom.

To Lily, this was not just another morning—it was magic.

She didn’t see bills in the mailbox or peeling paint on the fence. She didn’t notice the construction noise down the street or the rising price of gas. She saw light dancing on dew-soaked grass and imagined that fairies were leaving glitter trails with their wings. Every shape had a secret. Every sound held a story. Her world was not measured in chores and schedules, but in colors and moments.

When her mother called her down for breakfast, Lily skipped—literally—down the stairs, bouncing to a rhythm only she could hear. She stopped halfway, enchanted by a dust mote floating in a sunbeam.

“It’s a sparkle bug,” she whispered to no one, cupping her hands gently beneath it as if it might land.

Her mother smiled faintly from the kitchen but didn’t notice the reverence in Lily’s eyes. She was busy checking work emails, glancing at the news, trying not to burn the toast.

Lily’s breakfast was a bowl of cereal and a story. Not one she read—one she told.

“The cereal pieces are treasure, and the milk is the sea,” she explained to her little brother. “We’re pirates, but nice ones, and we save sea creatures.”

He nodded, not fully understanding, but fully believing.

After breakfast, the day became an adventure. Lily’s backyard was an undiscovered jungle. The crack in the sidewalk? A canyon where ants built secret cities. The puddle by the driveway? An ocean that mirrored the sky. She crouched low and watched a ladybug climb a blade of grass with the intensity of someone witnessing a miracle.

“Look!” she yelled to her father, who was trimming the hedge.

He looked down and gave a distracted smile. “Nice bug, sweetheart.”

But Lily didn’t see just a bug. She saw a tiny explorer. She imagined it wore a helmet and had a map. She gave it a name: Lucy.

To Lily, the world was alive. Trees waved at her. The wind whispered secrets. The moon followed her when she walked, and clouds turned into animals on command. She didn’t just live in the world—she played with it, sang to it, and believed in it with all her might.

Later that week, her family took her to the zoo. While most visitors strolled quickly from one animal to the next, checking boxes and snapping photos, Lily lingered. She stood in front of the giraffe enclosure for nearly fifteen minutes, absolutely mesmerized.

“Why are they so tall?” she asked.

“To reach the leaves,” said her older brother without looking up from his phone.

But Lily wasn’t looking for a fact—she was looking for a story.

“I think they’re tall so they can see things we can’t,” she whispered, “like secrets in the sky.”

That night, as her parents discussed work and bills, and her brother scrolled through videos, Lily sat cross-legged on the living room floor with crayons in her hand and a universe in her mind. She drew giraffes with wings and stars that blinked like eyes. She gave names to clouds and imagined talking trees. Her pictures didn’t always stay in the lines—but they always told the truth. Her truth.

Children like Lily don’t filter the world through fear, cynicism, or judgment. They don’t see people by race, status, or wealth. A man with a beard is just a man with a beard. A woman in a wheelchair is a lady with wheels. No pity, no awkwardness—just curiosity. Everyone is a potential friend, a mystery, or a hero in disguise.

Their kindness is instinctive. Their questions are genuine. They don’t speak to impress—they speak to connect. Their creativity isn’t shackled by rules or fear of failure. And their hearts? Their hearts are open.

So what happens?

As we grow, we learn to trade magic for logic. We’re told what’s “realistic” and what’s not. We’re taught to stop asking “silly” questions and start giving “correct” answers. We stop talking to butterflies. We forget that cardboard boxes can be spaceships and mud can be gold. We lose the habit of looking up and start looking down.

But children remember.

One evening, as Lily sat on the porch watching the sky fade from pink to indigo, she tugged on her father’s sleeve.

“Do you think stars are holes in the sky where heaven peeks through?” she asked.

He paused, then looked at her—really looked. And for a moment, something softened in his face.

“I used to,” he said quietly.

And just for a breath, the world grew big again—for both of them.