I woke up before my alarm. I made my bed, brushed my teeth, and got dressed so I could claim the perfect study spot by 8:30 AM. In the LaFortune Student Center on campus, study booths are coveted. If you don’t claim one before nine, you will have little luck finding a quiet nook to study (or in my case, write). There’s nothing particularly special about the “LaFun” booths - grim lighting, stained upholstery, wooden benches that more closely resemble pews - yet given the increasing volume of noise on campus (there’s even loud construction in the library!) these booths become all the more desired. The most treasured element of the booths is the modicum of privacy they offer. In a culture that is saturated with publicity - from digital presence to communal dorm rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, everything - many Notre Dame students revel in the chosen solitude. As an introvert, I revel in uniformity.
Here I am: booth claimed, computer plugged in, notebook opened, pen at the ready. I melt into the quiet. I snuggle into my coat because there’s a bit of a draft from the open door.
Open door…wait…why is the door open?
The sound of several very loud yet very small footsteps disrupt my focus. A hoard of elementary school students trample through the door. Someone - a someone I, at the moment, detest - had decided that the student center basement was the perfect spot for raucous snack time.
My quiet time was interrupted by several impossibly-energetic children. My quiet time was interrupted by a gaggle of them racing to get their lunch boxes from a disorganized pile. My quiet time was interrupted by a parade of chewing and chomping and gobbling. My quiet time was no longer quiet.
Air pods with obnoxiously loud brown noise can only do so much against a hoard of elementary schoolers enjoying their snack.
Whoever designed the noise prevention element obviously did not test it against schoolchildren.
I digress…
With air pods discarded, I abandoned all hope of writing anything coherent. Instead, I tuned my ear to their errant conversations. One in particular struck me. Guided by their fieldtrip chaperone, the children recounted tales from their travels. They counted on one hand all the places they’d been to. Some had four or five fingers lifted, others had one or two. One young girl, with budding excitement, told everyone she had been to the Bahamas! In reaction to her confession, one young boy’s eyes widened. He exclaimed “WOW”.
His WOW deserves all caps. It was exaggerated yet genuine. Kids have very little patience for the contrived. He was so amazed by this admission that he couldn’t help but open his eyes and his jaw in wonder.
Watching his face, I noticed that the corners of my lips lifted and my eyes, too, widened. I couldn’t help but feel his wonder seep into me and become mine.
I was taken out of myself for a brief moment, enriched by this encounter. My small heart grew three sizes in an instant. I was buoyed by this seven-year-old’s wonder and was lucky enough to share in it.
Eventually, snack time ended and the kids packed up their bags and left. It was quiet again, yet suddenly - I didn’t want the quiet anymore.
Brené Brown, social science researcher and the love of my life, writes about wonder: “Wonder desires to understand and fuels curiosity. [It is] often experienced with nature, art, music, spiritual experiences, or ideas” (Atlas Of The Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of Human Experience).
The young boy felt wonder at the prospect of traveling to the Bahamas and I, in turn, wondered about his wonder. Where did it come from? What is his relationship with the Bahamas? What is his relationship with travel? Where has he been? Who has helped him cultivate this sense of wonder?
Regardless, I think we could all stand to use a little bit more wonder in our lives. Even if we have to receive it from noisy seven-year-olds.
Questions I leave you with:
When have you felt wonder?
What have you learned from children?
What place have you been to (or not been to) that has cultivated wonder for you?