I am still learning.

The immortal artist Michelangelo Buonarroti, sculptor of David and painter of the Sistine Chapel, once uttered words that have outlived even his marble and paint: “I am still learning.” He spoke these not in youth, when ambition burns brightest, but in the twilight of his years—when his hands were worn from creation, and his eyes had seen both glory and sorrow. Yet even then, the master confessed himself a student. In those four humble words lies the eternal wisdom of the ages: that learning never ends, and that the soul that ceases to grow begins to wither, no matter how great its past achievements.

To say “I am still learning” is to bow before the infinite. It is to recognize that the universe is a scroll without end, and that human understanding, though vast, is but a single line upon it. Michelangelo, who had shaped gods from stone and painted the heavens upon a ceiling, knew that mastery is an illusion—that every revelation opens the door to a deeper mystery. His genius was not in his skill alone, but in his humility, in his willingness to remain forever a student beneath the divine hand of creation. He understood that to learn is to live; to stop learning is to die before death.

Even in his later years, Michelangelo’s hands trembled not from age, but from restless pursuit. When others rested in fame, he continued to carve, to study anatomy, to sketch the curve of bone and the flow of muscle, to seek perfection in every imperfect attempt. He once wrote that “ancora imparo”—“I am still learning”—as an inscription to himself, a reminder that even the greatest among mortals must never believe themselves complete. This simple truth lifted him above the vanity of his age and placed him among the eternal—those who strive not for praise, but for understanding.

This wisdom was known to the ancients as well. The philosopher Socrates, when hailed as the wisest of men, declared that his only wisdom was in knowing that he knew nothing. The mind that believes it has reached the summit sees no higher peaks; but the one who says “I am still learning” finds mountains beyond mountains, each one crowned with light. It is this spirit of eternal curiosity that gave birth to every age of progress, from the fires of invention to the revelations of art and science. The truly wise do not cling to what they know—they pursue what they do not.

Yet the world is full of those who grow comfortable in their knowledge, who mistake experience for understanding. They close their ears, their eyes, their hearts, and call it wisdom. But such stillness is not peace—it is stagnation. The river that stops flowing turns to swamp; the mind that stops learning turns to pride. Michelangelo’s words strike against this vanity like a bell of truth across the centuries: to be alive is to be learning. Even in failure, in doubt, in the struggle to improve, there lies the sacred movement of the soul toward something greater than itself.

Consider the child—how it learns through wonder, not fear. Every color, every sound, every question is a step into the vast unknown. And what is the child but the purest philosopher? The greatest artists, scientists, and saints have all kept this childlike spirit—the ability to look upon the familiar and still ask, “What more is there to see?” This is the heart of learning, the divine curiosity that no age, no title, no success can extinguish. It is the breath of creation itself, ever seeking new form, new life, new truth.

So let this be your lesson: no matter how high you rise, no matter how wise you believe yourself to be, keep the heart of the student. Read, question, observe. Listen to those who know less and those who know more. Learn from the world, from your failures, from your joys, from your pain. Each day offers a new lesson, and each lesson draws you nearer to the divine.

And when your hair is silver, and your hands tremble with age, may you still find the courage to whisper as Michelangelo did: “I am still learning.” For in those words lies the secret of immortality—not the endurance of the body, but the eternal awakening of the soul.