Paper Lantern

As a child, I believed the delicate petals of paper daisies were made from folded silk paper, carefully handcrafted by tiny hands hidden deep within the garden.

Whenever I crouched down to peer closely into the flower beds, I remember seeing one pink paper daisy stretching gently towards the sunlight, glowing softly beneath the golden afternoon light, as though she were proudly showing off her elegant craftsmanship to the world.

To search for these hidden makers, I would lower myself to the ground and bring my face close to the flowers. From that perspective, the garden transformed. Ordinary blooms became towering forests, fallen petals became winding pathways, and the smallest details opened into entire worlds waiting to be explored. I was convinced that little creatures must be wandering unseen among the stems, discovering wonders of their own.

Looking back, I realise I was not only imagining fantasy worlds. Without knowing it, I was learning how to see differently.

Perhaps this is how children encounter the world. We experience things from close range. We crouch down, look beneath the surface, and allow the ordinary to become extraordinary. Wonder arises not because the world itself is magical, but because we are willing to approach it with curiosity and imagination.

As adults, we rarely inhabit these perspectives anymore. We move quickly through familiar spaces, often forgetting that enchantment can begin simply by changing the way we look. Yet whenever I encounter paper daisies, I am reminded of that childhood belief and of the hours spent peering into flowers in search of invisible worlds.

When was the last time you brought your face close to a flower? When was the last time you looked beneath the blooms?

Perhaps the world has not become less magical. Perhaps we have simply stopped looking from the perspective through which we first discovered it.