Tell Me What It's Like

My little son toddled on the pavement, discovering his shadow for the very first time.  The sun's rays shone on the ground, defying the cold, crisp air, setting the stage for discovery.  I looked on, with a swell in my heart that mothers get watching their children discover, a bit amused at his mixture of delight and horror, gaining a new (literal) understanding of one who is scared of his own shadow.
 
What is going on in his little mind that causes him to react to this experience with a shriek of sheer delight, yet also horror?  To stare, his round blue eyes transfixed on the bright flames of the Shabbat candles?  To break out in a smile at an ordinary sky, as if he's seeing something more?  Is it mere unfamiliarity, or is there a world from before his babyhood that constantly shapes his brand new interactions with this one?
 
I am reminded of a story I heard from a friend of a friend.  The details are unconfirmed, but the message is sure:
 
A small child insisted that his parents leave him alone in the room with his baby brother.  Puzzled and curious, the parents closed the door and listened and looked through the peephole.  The three-year-old crouched down next to the baby and said, "Tell me what it's like, I'm beginning to forget."
 
Perhaps it confirms our (uncertain) intuition that children are indeed born from a mysterious, spiritual world of angels, holiness and pure wisdom.  And that when we hold them in our arms for the first time, in their sweet, newborn newness, their eyes look back at us, knowing nothing…yet knowing everything, with this wisdom that they can't articulate.  And that once they're a little older, learning how to talk, the wisdom remains-in their soul's desire to relearn it, in everything that they see and feel and touch.  
 
So perhaps, when our children are delighting in blowing on dandelions, or discovering their shadow for the very first time, we should be crouching down next to them, and asking with awe, "Tell me what it's like, I'm beginning to forget."