The Art of Looking Outward

Happiness is not a sudden flame

that startles the sky with noise.

It is a slow lamp,

lit quietly in the corner of the heart,

burning without announcement.

It does not arrive

with trumpets of triumph

or crowns of gold,

but with soil under the fingernails,

a book half-open on the lap,

and a sky so wide

that the mind forgets its cage.

For sorrow grows

when the self grows large.

When every thought bends inward—

my failure, my fear, my wound, my worth—

the soul becomes a closed room

where stale air circles endlessly.

But open a window.

Let the world enter.

Let there be stars

older than all complaints,

gardens patient with seasons,

rivers that refuse to hurry,

friends whose laughter

dissolves the borders of “I.”

Then the heart learns

its true proportion.

A man who studies the constellations

cannot remain the centre of creation.

A woman who tends a sapling

knows time is deeper than worry.

Among such quiet labours

troubles shrink

like shadows at noon.

Be gentle, too—

for hostility is a heavy coat

worn in summer.

It burdens every step.

Lay it down.

Walk lightly among others.

Smile without calculation.

Forgive before sleep.

The world, though imperfect,

answers kindness

more often than anger.

Demand less from life,

and life gives more.

Release the hunger for certainty,

for flawless days,

for permanent victories.

Accept the fragile, passing hour—

see how it glows

when not gripped too tightly.

And slowly, almost unnoticed,

the self loosens its hold.

Attention travels outward—

to a child’s question,

to a page of history,

to the ache of distant wars,

to the warmth of a familiar hand.

Pain still comes, yes—

friends depart, storms gather—

yet these are the sorrows of living,

not the poison of self-disgust.

Life remains lovable.

So happiness, at last,

is simply this:

To forget oneself

in something larger.

To care more than one fears.

To look outward

until the walls disappear.

And in that vastness,

like dawn spreading over quiet hills,

a calm joy rises—

not shouting,

not demanding,

just being.

Steady.

Sufficient.

Enough.