What We Miss When We Think We Know

There was a time when the world was made of wonder.

When a sunrise wasn’t a “sunrise”—but a fire-blush miracle calling us into a new day.

When our children’s laughter made us pause, instead of thinking, “Oh good, they’re playing.”

When we reached for the hand of someone we loved and felt the shiver of awe that this, this moment, is not guaranteed.

But something happened.

We grew up. We learned. We named things. We categorized them.

We became efficient in our relationships, our routines, our thinking.

We stopped seeing.

We walk through our days with heads full of knowing—believing that knowledge equals truth.

“This is just my partner.”

“This is just dinner.”

“This is just my life.”

And just like that, the shimmering world flattens.

People become roles.

Places become backgrounds.

Experiences become tasks.

Even ourselves—we become stories we’ve told too many times.

We forget that each person, each moment, each breath… is unrepeatable.

Is holy.

Is alive.

This is the quiet grief of adulthood—not the loss of innocence, but the loss of wonder.

And yet… what if there’s another way?

What if we lived with beginner’s mind—not as a technique, but as a way of being?

What if we allowed ourselves to not know the people we love?

To be curious, again, about the path we walk every day?

To notice the shift in the wind, the colour in someone’s eyes, the ache in our own hearts…

and meet it like it was the very first time?

To ask ourselves:

Beginner’s mind isn’t ignorance, it’s reverence.

It’s the courage to meet life unarmored.

To set down the sharp edges of certainty and become porous to awe.

In this way, we return to the art of living—not as performance, but as devotion.

We become apprentices to the present moment.

We see the beloved in the stranger.

We touch the divine in the ordinary.

And slowly, softly, the magic returns.

Not because it ever left.

But because we finally stopped knowing long enough…

to witness it.

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