A Poem, Winnie the Pooh, and Childhood Nostalgia

When I walked into the bookstore this time, I bought it. I don’t know why I chose that specific day, but for whatever reason, I knew it was time to take it home with me.

There is a little used bookstore down the street and around the corner from our house. I see it almost every day as I am passing by on other errands, and sometimes I will stop in for a quick browse.

On my last three or four visits, I have noticed a large, illustrated copy of The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh. Every time I have seen it, I have been tempted to get it. But given the “no more than $7” rule that I try (and often fail) to apply rigidly to my incessant book-buying desires, its $10 sticker was a bit off-putting. Besides, as I would tell myself on previous visits, I didn’t really need a children’s book. We don’t even have any children!

But on this particular day, I knew for a fact that it was time for Winnie the Pooh to come home with me. When I got back to the house, I cracked open its thick pages, now comfortably pliable from years of loving use in a previous home, and my eyes fell on the colorful illustrations.

Growing up, Winnie the Pooh had been a staple in our home. My mom would read it to us before bedtime, and we even had the stories on audio cassette for long car rides. I remember my first real enchantment with the tales began when we heard of the true story behind them, the story of a Canadian soldier who befriended a little bear and named her Winnie.

When I opened the book, it was as if all the years of childhood memories and nostalgia had been trapped up inside those pages and were suddenly released. They wafted over me, almost tangible in their potency. As I flipped through the pages, my heart was filled to the brim the sweetness of childhood. For me, Winnie the Pooh stood as an artifact from a bygone age, a different world, when things were simple and the whole world was filled with innocence, magic, and tender affection. In short, it was a living artifact from the world of children.

As an adult, I know I am not alone in remarking how easy it can be to get caught up in the complicated problems of the world and our lives. As such, I find it far too easy to forget that first sense of childlike wonder that we came into the world with. In my current graduate studies, I spend a lot of time with my nose buried in books. I am incredibly privileged to be in constant conversation with some of the greatest thinkers of the past and present. But I would suggest that no matter how far we advance in our learning, it will always be the virtue of childlike wonder that keeps us truly humble and open to the reality of the world around us. Personally, I know that without that sense of wonder, I would struggle to remember what is most important.

So, if life is getting us down, or even if it just seems a bit complicated, maybe it’s time to return to the simplest of things. A cup of tea. A slow morning with warm blankets and lots of snuggles. Or, in this case, a pot of honey. I’m so glad I decided to add this book to my shelves again. In honor of this sweet experience, I was inspired to write down a little poem, which I have included below.

It might not be Winnie the Pooh for you, but whatever it is that takes you right back to that place of childlike wonder, I encourage you to find it and dip your toes again into the lake of nostalgia, rediscovering innocence, wonder, and the humility of little children, which is what keeps this world so wonderful.

A Little Book

I found a little book today,
It beckoned from the shelf.
I traded in my leather-bounds
To read its humble wealth.

The little book was tattered now, 
Its pages worn and shorn, 
From tiny hands in bygone years
That made it look forlorn.

It held no wisdom of the world
Nor grand philosophies.
It couldn't really speak to you
About those sorts of things.

But what it held was memory
Of childhood soft and sweet, 
Of cozy nights and frosty morns, 
Of little hands and feet.

It told me of the simple things,
Of things I had forgot,
Of puffins eating cakes and tea,
And slaying Jabberwocks.

This little book had wisdom,
Yet of a different kind. 
It told of all the little things 
Within our hearts and minds. 

And while it might not earn its place
With higher learned men, 
To those with little hearts and ears
A message it will send.

It bears the same news as a King
Who didn't come in style, 
But preached of wonder to the meek
And ruled, but as a child.