I'm passionately involved in life: I love its change, its color

Hear now the words of the great pianist Arthur Rubinstein, whose soul poured forth both in sound and in wisdom: “I’m passionately involved in life: I love its change, its color, its movement. To be alive, to be able to see, to walk, to have houses, music, paintings—it’s all a miracle.” This utterance, though spoken in the age of the modern man, carries the fragrance of eternal truth. It is not merely a musician’s musing, but a hymn to existence itself, a call for men and women to awaken to the wonder of being. For what is life if not a ceaseless song, composed of moments both vast and humble?

Rubinstein, who survived the storms of war and the exile of his people, did not speak as one who took breath for granted. He had tasted sorrow, he had seen nations broken, and yet he turned not to despair but to gratitude. To him, the ability to walk, to see, to breathe, to dwell among music and art—these were not common things, but treasures. In his voice we hear the wisdom of one who had stood at the edge of darkness and still chose to praise the light. Thus his words are not naive, but forged in the fire of reality, and they carry the weight of truth.

Think of the tale of Helen Keller, born into silence and darkness, cut off from the world’s beauty. Yet with the help of her teacher Anne Sullivan, she grasped at knowledge through the touch of water upon her hand. And when at last she understood, the floodgates of joy burst within her, for she realized that even the simplest of sensations—water, earth, touch—were revelations. Like Rubinstein, she proclaimed that life itself, with all its senses and expressions, is indeed a miracle. Her life became a testimony that even when deprived of sight or sound, one could still embrace the world with passion and love.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, wrote in his meditations: “When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.” This is the same spirit Rubinstein carried when he spoke of color, movement, and music. The Stoic emperor and the Jewish pianist, separated by centuries, sang the same song: that life, in its smallest details, is a wonder too often overlooked.

But hear me, children of tomorrow: many walk this earth blind though their eyes are open, deaf though their ears hear. They pass by the paintings, unmoved by their beauty. They eat their bread without tasting, breathe their air without gratitude, rise in the morning without awe. Such souls are not truly alive, but wandering shadows. Rubinstein warns against this slumber, calling us instead to become “passionately involved,” to see the world not as drudgery but as endless gift.

The lesson is this: do not wait for great riches, victories, or fame to honor the miracle of your days. Instead, let every small act be your cathedral: the morning light upon your window, the laughter of a child, the scent of bread in the oven, the sound of a distant song. These are miracles no less than the rising of stars. By learning to rejoice in them, you live as Rubinstein lived—with fire in your heart and wonder in your soul.

Practical wisdom follows: each day, pause to name aloud three simple blessings that remind you that life is indeed miraculous. Let music, art, or beauty find a place in your day, even if for a moment. Walk with open eyes, and when despair whispers that all is meaningless, recall Rubinstein’s words and say: “To see, to walk, to love—this is enough.” In this way you will train your spirit to delight in the ordinary, until the ordinary itself becomes extraordinary.

So let it be known: to live with passion is the highest art. To awaken to the color of the world is the noblest prayer. And to call life itself a miracle is to hold in your hands the key to joy eternal. May you walk forward with this wisdom, and may your days be filled not with weariness, but with gratitude and wonder.