The Unfinished Journey of Wonder

I have learned there is a terrible irony in never growing up. I keep doing the same things, and my friends get old and fade away. Gone are the days when my peers had the time and interest to drop everything and cruise backroads for snakes because “the air feels right.” Now they have kids, demanding jobs, and mental health struggles that were absent in their prime. So, although people often applaud my childlike wonder—and even go so far as to say they wish they could still do the things I do—I find myself alone.

I’ve wrestled with the idea of recruiting new friends to accompany me on my sometimes dangerous wildlife pursuits. My wife is always after me to hang out with this or that person she’s seen me talk with online, but she just doesn’t get it. “Hey, person I barely know, do you want to slog around a stinky marsh at night looking for venomous cottonmouths?” That’s not exactly the ideal icebreaker when trying to make new friends.

I also deal with the guilt of no longer inviting some of my old friends because they aren’t interested, available, or are far too risk-averse. Life has a way of beating us all down. What once felt like frivolous pursuits become just another stressor. I even feel guilty burdening them with the need to give me a negative response. I know if they could, they would. They just can’t anymore. Life moves on. In many ways, it feels like it has left me behind.

Most people my age grew up a long time ago—settled down, had kids, and put away their childish pursuits. I’m thankful that I have a wife who understands my need for seasons of “walkabout.” The fact that we don’t have children probably makes my forays into the wild less of a burden on our household. She can always tell when I begin to get that wanderlust. I start to get restless, and it usually manifests as extreme burnout and depression.

My mental health begins to spiral, and I feel an overwhelming urge to quit everything. It can feel like I’m drowning in a purposeless pursuit of only making a living and nothing more. Ironically, the cure for what ails me is often a simple walk in the woods. Yet, that has become the hardest thing to do solo. I spent most of my teens through my early thirties hiking alone multiple times a week. It’s never ideal to be alone, but my need to explore has always outweighed my need for safety. Now, some days, it seems nearly impossible to leave my yard. That’s still something I’m working through.

When was the last time you wrung creek water out of your socks after exploring the muddy banks for the wonders they held? For most people, I imagine the last time they intentionally flipped streamside rocks for salamanders and crayfish was in middle school. I’ve spent a lifetime wondering why we age out of childlike wonder. A childhood friend once reminisced about how we used to play in the creek behind their house, then said, “Well, I guess you never grew out of that.” I took it as a huge compliment. I now know that the ability to keep doing these things is a privilege.

In elementary school, I would bring Fowler’s toads—held against their will—for show and tell. They lived in terrariums made from Mt. Olive pickle jars with holes jabbed into the lid. A handful of moss and a well-positioned stick would serve as substrate and enrichment for the unwilling amphibians. I loved sharing my passion with other kids. When I pulled a snake out of my pocket or talked about my creepy-crawly friends, I briefly climbed out of obscurity among my classmates.

Fast forward a few decades. I got to spend time doing live animal shows in schools and churches as my profession. As it turns out, that’s not a lucrative business model. But each time I saw those kids’ eyes light up, my financial worries faded away. Their passion was infectious and reinforced my own. Wonder became an act of worship. It aligned me with something bigger than myself. Sharing that wonder gave me purpose.

The older I get, the more I realize my love affair with nature is only part of the picture. What truly charges my aching soul is sharing that love with others. I love teaching people about what exists all around them. Thankfully, I still get excited at the most mundane reptile or amphibian I find in my backyard, but that excitement is amplified when I can share it. It’s exponentially better when the person I share it with once had an aversion to the animal, and I can help them see it in a new light.

The wonder we all had as kids still exists within us. It’s just buried under bills and measured “achievements.” It’s time we knock the dust off our arthritic knees and follow a stream until we find something that makes us gasp in awe. The pursuit of wonder is a worthy quest. You’ll likely learn more about yourself than about what you’re pursuing.

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker from Bethania, North Carolina. His work has been published in The Havok Journal, Reptiles Magazine, Understory, Dirtbag Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, Backcountry Journal, Wildlife in North Carolina, SOFLETE, The Tarheel Guardsman, Wildsound Writing Festival, and others. His poetry collection A Toad in a Glass Jar is scheduled for publication by Dead Reckoning Collective, date TBD. He has written three children’s books and one Christian Devotional book. He filmed and directed a documentary about his deployment in Iraq with the NC Army National Guard called “Hammer Down.” He spends most of his free time wrangling toads. You can see his collected works and social media accounts listed at www.stanlakecreates.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.