Out the cradle in anticlimatic

This song in the dark, alone with the window fans and spring leaves:

I have to hand it to these ladies. Or maybe the seasonal accents. Really takes me back to a place of mind nearly forgotten. Do you remember when the world in which you were entering- people older and wiser already inhabiting it- was like a kind of…inspirational cradle? When everything new held you and flattened you with its living breathing existential beauty. Like a grandmother’s hand leading a baby through a garden.

I feel this again with this song if I meditate on it hard. I miss the feeling. Is there any getting back of the world’s magic in one’s autumn years I wonder? Perhaps sooner?