Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn't

William Stafford, in his quiet yet eternal wisdom, once spoke: “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.” These words are a hymn to innocence, a reminder of the pure vision with which we are born. To the child, the world is not divided between noise and song, silence and rhythm. All is harmony, all is movement, all is life’s great symphony. Before they are taught to separate, to judge, to call one sound “music” and another “noise,” they move freely to the rhythm of existence itself.

The ancients knew this truth, though they spoke in other words. They said that at the dawn of life, the soul remembers its origin, when it was still one with the eternal. In children, this memory still lingers. They dance not because they have learned steps, but because they feel the pulse of the universe. They laugh at the rustle of leaves, they sway to the cadence of rain, they clap to the hum of a passing breeze. In them, Stafford reveals the secret we too often forget: the whole world is music, and to live is to move in harmony with it.

But as years pass, the world teaches us boundaries. We are told that only certain sounds count as music, only certain movements count as dance. We begin to divide, to measure, to filter, until the great symphony of life is reduced to fragments. What once made us free now feels restricted. The child who once danced to everything learns stillness, and the adult sits motionless, waiting for “proper” music before daring to move. Stafford’s words strike like a bell: we were born knowing joy, but forgot it in the lessons of limitation.

Consider the story of Isadora Duncan, the mother of modern dance. As a child, she moved with freedom, unbound by the rigid forms of ballet and tradition. She looked at the sea, the trees, the wind, and found in them the rhythms of movement. She reclaimed what Stafford describes—the child’s natural belief that all the world is music—and she built her art upon it. Though criticized and mocked, her spirit prevailed, and she transformed dance forever. She proved that to return to innocence is to return to truth.

The wisdom here is profound: if children see the whole world as music, then perhaps the world truly is music, and it is only our blindness that silences it. Every sound, every step, every breath carries rhythm if we choose to hear it. The ancients spoke of the “music of the spheres,” the harmony of the cosmos itself. Stafford reminds us that we were born already hearing this harmony—until the world convinced us otherwise.

The lesson for you, seeker of truth, is this: recover the child’s vision. Do not wait for the perfect song to rise before you move. Let the wind in the trees, the murmur of voices, even the hum of machines remind you of life’s rhythm. Dance to it—not always with the body, but with the spirit. Embrace the truth that joy and rhythm are everywhere, and that to live fully is to live musically.

Practical wisdom follows: each day, pause and listen. Hear the sounds around you—not as interruptions, but as part of a great unseen orchestra. Move with them, whether in body, or in heart. Allow yourself to smile at what the world calls noise, and transform it into music again. Spend time with kids, and learn from their freedom; for they are still close to the source. They will remind you that life is not a march of rules, but a dance of being.

So let Stafford’s words be etched into your spirit: “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.” Remember them whenever life feels heavy, whenever silence seems empty. For if you can recover the vision of the child, then the whole world becomes a song again, and your soul—long silent—will rise and dance once more.