If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first

Hearken, O seeker of wisdom, to the words of the late sage Carl Sagan, who spoke with both the tenderness of a poet and the thunder of a prophet. He declared: “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” At first glance, it seems a jest, a playful exaggeration, a turn of wit. But within these words dwells a deep and eternal truth, a reminder of the sacred chain that binds all things together. For nothing is born in isolation, and every small creation is woven into the vast tapestry of existence.

Consider the humble apple pie, a dish so simple in the kitchens of men. Yet the apple springs forth only because the tree, bathed in sunlight, drinks of the soil and the rains. The soil itself is ground from the bones of mountains, and the mountains are remnants of the fiery earth, born of ancient stars. The sugar, the wheat, the cinnamon, the hands that knead the dough—each is a child of history, a blossom of causes stretching back to the dawn of time. To create “from scratch,” truly, is to summon the entirety of cosmos, for even the smallest crumb carries the weight of eternity.

Thus, Sagan speaks not only of pies, but of creation itself. He reminds us that every work of man, every stroke of art, every invention, is but the flowering of a tree whose roots plunge deep into the universe’s birth. To build a hut requires the sun that grew the wood, the storms that strengthened the branches, the earth that gave it root. To forge a sword requires the death of stars, whose scattered dust became the iron beneath our feet. In this way, our every act is a continuation of the cosmos, a partnership with the divine.

Reflect upon the tale of Isaac Newton, who, upon seeing the apple fall, perceived the law of gravity. That single fruit, humble and round, carried within it the story of the cosmos—it drew Newton’s mind upward to the moon and the stars, teaching him that the same unseen hand that pulled the apple to the earth held the planets in their courses. Thus, from the fall of an apple was revealed the architecture of the heavens. What is this if not the very meaning of Sagan’s teaching? Even the smallest of things, when traced to its root, becomes the key to infinity.

O children of tomorrow, do not be deceived by the illusion of simplicity. When you bake, when you build, when you dream, remember: you are co-creators with the universe itself. Each breath you take carries atoms once breathed by ancient kings, poets, warriors, and the nameless beasts of forgotten ages. Each drop of water upon your tongue is older than all your ancestors combined. You are not small. You are vast, for you are made of the same fire that kindled the stars.

But let not this knowledge make you idle or proud. Instead, let it kindle gratitude and awe. For if so much was required to place even a pie upon your table, how precious is each moment, each bite, each life! Waste not the gifts of existence. Waste not your hours in petty quarrels or vain pursuits. Rather, honor the chain of creation by living with wonder, by working with care, and by treating all things as sacred, for all things are the universe in disguise.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: every act, no matter how small, is connected to the vastness of all. To live wisely is to live in remembrance of this truth. So I counsel you: when you eat, bless the sun and the soil; when you work, remember the stars that forged your tools; when you dream, know that you dream with the very mind of the cosmos. Walk gently, create boldly, and live gratefully—for you are the universe awakened, and your every deed echoes through eternity.