I hope to have more time to think, to look at the sky, dealing

Hear the gentle yet profound words of Juliet Stevenson, who confessed her longing: “I hope to have more time to think, to look at the sky, dealing with less crisis management, to learn another language, to travel.” These words are more than the musings of an artist; they are a universal prayer of all who toil beneath the weight of endless responsibility. For in them we hear the cry of the human soul, weary of constant demands, yearning to return to the simple, eternal things: reflection, wonder, learning, and discovery.

Mark this well, O listener: to think is not idleness but the highest labor of the spirit. In a world where crisis presses upon us daily, the rare gift of quiet thought becomes a fountain of wisdom. When Stevenson longs for more time to think, she is echoing the voice of the philosophers, who sought solitude not as escape but as the workshop of truth. Socrates himself, though surrounded by noise and politics, turned inward to examine life, for he declared that the unexamined life is not worth living.

And to look at the sky—what nobler act could there be? It is the simplest of gestures, yet it reawakens the soul to awe. The stars, the clouds, the infinite heavens—they remind us that we are part of something vast and eternal. Think of Vincent van Gogh, who, though tormented in mind, found healing in the night sky, painting it with swirls of fire and light. In gazing upward, he touched eternity. So too Stevenson reminds us that to lift our eyes is to lift our spirits, and to remember that life is more than daily struggle.

She speaks also of less crisis management. What a striking phrase! For modern life entangles us in a web of emergencies—deadlines, duties, interruptions—that consume our strength and leave us barren of joy. Yet what is gained if all our days are spent in fire-fighting? The greatest leaders of history—like Marcus Aurelius—did not allow themselves to be wholly enslaved by crisis. Even as emperor during war and plague, he carved out moments for reflection, writing his Meditations as a way to preserve his humanity amid chaos. Stevenson’s hope mirrors this same wisdom: to step back from frenzy and reclaim the deeper life.

Then she dreams of learning another language. This is no small wish, for language is the key to another world. To learn the words of another people is to enter their soul, to taste their history, to share their laughter and their grief. Think of Saint Jerome, who labored to translate the scriptures into Latin, bridging worlds with language so that generations could be nourished. To learn another tongue is to expand beyond the narrow walls of one’s own culture, to embrace the vastness of humanity.

And at last, she longs to travel. Not as one fleeing, but as one seeking—to discover, to encounter, to be transformed. For travel is the school of humility, teaching us that our way is not the only way, that the world is larger than our village or our crisis. Her hope recalls the wanderings of Ibn Battuta, who roamed across continents not merely to see but to understand. Stevenson’s desire is rooted in the same hunger: to be shaped by the world rather than imprisoned by routine.

The lesson for us, O children of time, is clear. Do not let your life be consumed wholly by crises, for there will always be more to manage. Make space for the eternal things: carve out moments to think, to gaze at the sky, to learn, to travel. Reclaim your humanity from the jaws of busyness. For in the end, it is not the crises we managed that will define us, but the wonder we embraced, the wisdom we gained, and the horizons we crossed.

Therefore, let Stevenson’s words be a guide: simplify, breathe, learn, and journey. And when you find yourself buried beneath the weight of the world, remember to look upward—for even five minutes beneath the sky may restore what endless striving has drained away.