Maybe I Still See Stars Falling

Reflections on Wonder and the Weight of Time

When I was little, I used to lie on the grass after dark and stare up at the sky until it blurred. Every glimmering speck felt alive—each one a spark that might fall toward me if I wished hard enough. The night was a stage, and I believed the stars danced just for me. When planes passed overhead, their blinking lights were comets on secret missions, their hum a message I almost understood.

The world then was made of miracles. Trees were not just trees—they were green giants whispering secrets through their branches. The wind was not merely air—it was a voice, invisible but present, urging me to run faster, climb higher, dream bigger. Every stone, every worm, every raindrop felt like part of a single heartbeat. My hands were always dirty, my knees always scraped, but my heart was spotless—open to everything.

I remember the smell of wet earth after rain, the way it carried both decay and renewal in the same breath. I remember winter’s first snow, soft and endless, falling like a blessing from a sky that had no ceiling. I would press my face into it, cold against my cheeks, and think: if I lie here long enough, maybe I’ll become part of the sky itself.

Now, years later, winter feels longer. The snow falls heavier—not outside, but somewhere in me. I’ve learned that beauty can still exist, but it hides behind noise and exhaustion. The seasons still turn, but they do so with less grace. Spring feels rushed, summer burns too bright, autumn ends too soon, and winter overstays its welcome. The clock spins faster, yet the heart drags behind.

I see people rushing through their days, staring down at screens instead of up at the sky. I do it too sometimes. Maybe that’s why the stars seem dimmer now—because we’ve stopped looking for them. We no longer mistake airplanes for rockets; we know too much to believe. Knowledge is heavy like that—it gives us understanding, but it takes away wonder.

Still, sometimes I catch myself forgetting to be an adult. I’ll look up on a clear evening and see a streak of white slicing the blue. My first thought, even now, is a rocket! Then I remember—it’s only a plane. But for those few seconds, I’m eight years old again, barefoot in the backyard, pointing at the sky and grinning like I’d discovered the universe.

Children aren’t wrong about the world—they just see it without the layers we pile on later. They don’t think in terms of money or meaning or time running out. They just feel, and that feeling makes the world bigger than it really is. They believe in magic not because they’re foolish, but because they haven’t yet learned to fear disappointment. And maybe that’s what wisdom really is: the courage to keep believing even after the world teaches you not to.

Yesterday, I saw a contrail shimmer across the horizon. The plane vanished, but its trail lingered like chalk on a blueboard sky. I watched it fade until there was nothing left but open air and quiet, and in that silence, I realized something simple: the child I once was never truly left. He just got quieter, waiting for me to look up again.

Maybe we don’t lose wonder—it just hides behind years of worry, waiting for a moment of stillness to be seen again. And when we finally pause long enough to look, we might just find that the sky hasn’t changed at all.

It’s still wide.

Still infinite.

Still waiting.