To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the

John Burroughs, the naturalist-sage of the American woods, once wrote with the clarity of a man who had walked among rivers and trees: “To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter… to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird’s nest or a wildflower in spring — these are some of the rewards of the simple life.” In these words lies an eternal teaching: that the deepest joys of life are not purchased with gold, nor found in palaces, but are given freely by the earth to those who open their eyes and hearts.

The phrase universal elements points to what sustains us all — the air we breathe, the water we drink, the earth beneath our feet, the fire of the sun, and the mystery of the stars. These gifts are not the possessions of kings or the wealthy alone, but belong to every soul born into this world. Burroughs reminds us that if we learn to find them “enough,” we shall never be poor, for abundance lies all around us. Poverty of spirit begins only when we fail to see the treasures already within our grasp.

The morning walk and evening saunter symbolize the rhythm of life. At dawn, the soul rises with new strength, greeting the world in freshness; at dusk, the heart slows, finding peace in reflection. Those who live the simple life discover that such walks restore more than the body — they cleanse the mind and heal the spirit. In contrast, those who chase endless ambition often lose even the ability to notice the changing light of the day. Burroughs warns us gently: to ignore these small wonders is to forfeit life itself.

The mention of the stars and the wildflower reveals the duality of wonder. The stars at night awaken awe for the infinite, reminding us of our smallness in the vast cosmos. The wildflower at our feet awakens tenderness for the near and the fragile, reminding us that beauty dwells in the smallest corners of the earth. To be thrilled and elated by these is to keep alive the childlike heart, the spirit that finds joy without needing grandeur. Such is the wisdom of the simple life — a life that can find greatness in both immensity and intimacy.

History gives us countless witnesses to this truth. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus, born a slave, taught that happiness lies not in possessions but in aligning with nature and virtue. St. Francis of Assisi, clothed in poverty, sang hymns to the sun, the moon, the birds, and the flowers, calling them his brothers and sisters. Henry David Thoreau retreated to Walden Pond to rediscover life’s essence, writing that he wished to “live deliberately.” All of them, like Burroughs, proclaimed that simplicity reveals the truest riches.

The lesson is plain but profound: if you would live well, learn to delight in what is already yours. Breathe deeply of the air, drink gratefully of the water, walk in the morning, gaze at the stars, and let your heart leap at the sight of a wildflower. These are not the rewards of the wealthy, but the inheritance of all humanity. To seek endlessly beyond them, while ignoring them, is to wander in a famine of the soul amid a feast of abundance.

Practical action flows easily: slow your pace, and begin to notice. Step outside at dawn or dusk and let your mind rest in the rhythm of the earth. Keep gratitude for the simplest things — a drink of water, a cool breeze, a bird’s song. Resist the lure of endless possessions, and instead cultivate awe for what is already around you. This practice will strengthen you more than riches and comfort you more than fame.

Thus, John Burroughs gives us a teaching as timeless as the sky itself: the simple life is not deprivation, but fullness; not poverty, but abundance. Children of tomorrow, take this wisdom to heart: if you can thrill at a star, rejoice in a flower, and walk in peace beneath the open sky, then you have already tasted the highest joy life can offer.