I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the

The scholar and philologist Max Müller once declared, “I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the first time.” These words, though simple, shimmer with profound meaning. They remind us of that sacred moment in every soul’s journey when wonder first awakens, when the veil of the ordinary is lifted and the universe reveals its majesty. The stars are more than distant fires—they are the eternal teachers of awe, the silent witnesses that have stirred human imagination since the dawn of time. To recall their first sight is to recall the birth of wonder within oneself.

For what does it mean to see the stars for the first time? It is not merely the act of eyes perceiving distant lights, but the heart recognizing infinity. It is the child within us lifting its gaze and sensing that life is more than survival, more than routine. It is the spark that ignites poetry, philosophy, and faith. The ancients, upon beholding the night sky, felt not only curiosity but reverence. They mapped constellations, told myths of gods and heroes, and used the heavens to guide their steps upon the earth. Thus Müller's words are rooted in an ancient lineage: the moment of seeing the stars is the moment of awakening to the vastness of existence.

Consider the story of Immanuel Kant, the philosopher who once said that two things filled him with awe: “the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” In his youth, standing beneath the night sky of Königsberg, he glimpsed the majesty of the cosmos and felt the stirrings of the infinite. That vision shaped his thought, giving birth to a philosophy that sought to unite reason and wonder. In him we see the truth of Müller’s words: that a single sight of the stars can mark the beginning of a lifelong quest for understanding and meaning.

And let us not forget the shepherds of old, who watched their flocks beneath the heavens and, in the quiet, found communion with eternity. Or the sailors who steered their vessels across unknown seas, guided only by constellations. For them, the stars were not abstractions but lifelines, bearing both mystery and survival. In each case, the first sight of those distant fires was more than perception—it was revelation, the recognition that human life is connected to something vast and enduring.

To remember such a moment, as Müller did, is to remain forever a seeker. Too often, as life’s burdens weigh upon us, the sense of wonder fades. We grow accustomed to the night sky, forgetting its strangeness, its beauty. But the wise never let go of that first astonishment. They cultivate it as a sacred flame, allowing it to inspire art, science, and love. For without wonder, the soul withers; but with it, the soul expands, reaching always for higher truths.

The lesson is clear: never lose the memory of your first stars. Guard it, return to it, let it speak to you when the world seems dull and heavy. Wonder is not a passing fancy but a source of strength, a reminder that you are part of something vast and eternal. To live without wonder is to walk with eyes closed; to live with it is to walk in light, even when surrounded by darkness.

Practically, this means seeking moments of awe in daily life. Go outside and look to the sky, not with the eyes of routine, but with the heart of a child who sees for the first time. Let the stars remind you of the greatness beyond your troubles. Let them call you to humility and courage. In every sunrise, every constellation, every glimpse of eternity, renew the memory Müller spoke of. For to remember your first stars is to never forget who you truly are: a being born not only of earth, but also of heaven.