While walking on one of my favorite hiking trails, a monarch flits past me. This fragile insect, no heavier than a paperclip, will soon begin its journey to Mexico—battling heat, storms, and cold, adjusting its flight with the sun or, on cloudy days, its internal compass. How is that possible? I often struggle to remember where I parked my car, and yet this tiny creature, with a brain the size of a pinhead, can navigate thousands of miles with amazing precision.

The marvel of the monarch leaves me thoughtful. These days, curiosity seems to define me. With another birthday on the horizon, you’d think I’d have answers. Instead, I have more questions than ever.

Take the catalpa trees that surround me. Scientists say trees can “talk” through their roots, sharing warnings of drought or disease, even flooding their leaves with chemicals to ward off destructive insects. But can they also dig their roots deeper to prepare for dry spells? Do the catalpas ahead know something the ones behind me don’t? I run my hand along the rough bark of one trunk and wonder—are the trees whispering secrets beneath my feet?

I reach the bridge over a spring-fed stream and spot a frog. Could it be the species that uses its eyeballs to swallow? David Attenborough explains this in a YouTube clip—strange, fascinating, and unforgettable. https://bit.ly/4nOnuqk Even if this frog isn’t that species, its resilience is astonishing. All winter, while I’m bundled in thermal clothes, this creature will be frozen solid. Then, come spring, it will thaw and hop along as though nothing unusual has happened. Imagine that.

Further on, I pass the cliff wall where I once saw a turkey vulture emerge. Was she nesting in the cavity? Did she have young inside? And, I chuckle to myself, are turkey vulture chicks so ugly they’re cute?

At one of the bluebird houses my husband and I clean out each fall, I peek inside. In the back corner lies the tiniest fragment of eggshell. I smile, imagining the fledglings that once sheltered here. Where are they now? Will they return to raise young of their own? I remember one spring when a pair of bluebirds nested in my backyard, and I got to see the adult feeding their young the mealworms that I’d set out.

A bee hovers over one of the trail’s last blooming flowers. Will it return to its hive and perform a dance to show the others where nectar remains? I’ve read about the bees’ waggle dance, a built-in GPS that’s been guiding bees since time began. Amazing, isn’t it—that a simple wiggle and turn can point the way to food and survival?

The meadow comes into view, and a crow greets me with its caw. Does it recognize me? Crows remember faces, and I’ve walked this trail often enough that it could be announcing to the others, “No need to worry—it’s just her again.” I recall an article in Smithsonian noting that birds are descendants of dinosaurs. How marvelous to think that I’m surrounded by dinosaurs every day. That thought alone puts a spring in my step.

As the path bends back toward home, I reflect again on how, after all of these years, I still don’t have answers. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to collect a bunch of answers, but to keep asking the questions. Questions open doors. They keep us alert, awake, alive to wonder. And wonder, I’ve learned, is a marvelous gift.

So, this birthday, as the candles are lit, I’ll wish to remain curious. Because curiosity, I’m convinced, helps keep us young.