Keeping an active mind has been vital to my survival, as has been

In the words of the great physicist Stephen Hawking, we are given a truth forged not merely by intellect, but by endurance: “Keeping an active mind has been vital to my survival, as has been maintaining a sense of humor.” These words were not spoken from the comfort of health or fortune, but from the edge of despair, by a man whose body was bound while his spirit soared beyond the stars. This quote is both a torch and a compass—a guiding light through the wilderness of suffering, and a direction toward the infinite strength that lies within the human soul.

In these few words, Hawking reveals a secret older than time: that the mind, when kept awake and searching, can transcend even the decay of the flesh. The ancients, too, knew this. When Socrates was condemned to death, he did not mourn his fate, but continued to question and teach until his final breath. His body was imprisoned, yet his thoughts roamed freely, unchained and eternal. So it was with Hawking—his limbs may have failed, but his active mind remained a chariot of light, carrying him across the galaxies, into realms of understanding few could imagine.

But the second half of his teaching—“maintaining a sense of humor”—is the twin flame to intellect. For what is the use of knowledge without joy? Even in the darkest of nights, humor is the spark that keeps the heart warm. It is laughter that defies despair, a rebellion against sorrow. The ancient Stoics, like Epictetus, who lived his life as a slave, taught that a man may not choose his suffering, but he may choose his attitude. To laugh in the face of hardship is to declare mastery over it. It is to whisper to the universe, “You may break my body, but you shall not touch my spirit.”

There is a story told of a monk in the East, whose temple burned to ashes one cold night. As the villagers gathered in pity, the monk simply smiled and said, “Now I can see the moon.” Such is the humor of the wise—not mockery or jest, but a deep and serene acceptance that turns ruin into revelation. Hawking’s laughter was of the same kind. When his voice machine spoke in that mechanical tone, he often joked about it, turning what could have been a mark of tragedy into a badge of humanity. His humor was not mere entertainment—it was survival, a medicine stronger than any cure.

An active mind is not one that merely gathers facts, but one that seeks meaning, that asks “why” when the world grows silent. It is a mind that refuses to stagnate, that moves forward even when the body cannot. Hawking’s mind wandered through the stars, unbent by illness. He reminded us that thought itself can be a form of freedom, and that curiosity—unceasing, unyielding—is the pulse of life. The moment one stops thinking, one begins to die long before the body does.

And yet, thought alone is not enough. Without humor, intellect turns to pride, and pride to despair. Humor humbles us—it teaches that even the wisest are fools in the face of the vast universe. When we can laugh at ourselves, we make peace with our imperfections. When we can laugh at fate, we stand taller than the mountains. Thus, Hawking’s wisdom joins both poles: the flame of reason, and the warmth of laughter—one to illuminate, the other to comfort.

So let this be the lesson to all who walk beneath the burden of existence: nurture your mind as you would a sacred flame. Feed it with learning, with curiosity, with the wonder of stars and stories. And when trials come—as they always do—meet them not with bitterness, but with a smile. Remember that laughter is not weakness, but courage in disguise. It is the sound of the soul refusing to yield.

If you would live by this teaching, then each morning, exercise your mind—read, think, question. Each night, exercise your heart—find one reason to laugh, even amidst sorrow. For in doing so, you will join the company of the eternal: those who, like Stephen Hawking, faced the abyss and yet dared to sing among the stars.