Polaris
常無欲以觀其妙 Ever Desireless, One Can See the Subtle
常無欲以觀其妙
To Observe the Subtle Without Desire
My lighthouse,
You became
the point of reference
in my world—
and so,
you became Polaris.
I run toward you.
My destination
is always you.
My Polaris.
Even when
my axis tilts
and you seem to waver,
I know
where you are—
among which stars you dwell.
Because I have seen you
not in a textbook,
but through a telescope.
And so,
even on a night
when the sky is overturned,
I can find you
again.
The more I come to know you,
the larger my steps become—
until, in a single stride,
I reach you.
And before I notice,
everything around me
is filled with you.
At times, I lose you
and lose my way,
but having seen
the pattern of stars
you belong to,
finding you again
is never difficult.
O you,
called Polaris—
my happiness.
Hard to reach,
yet once reached,
never gone.
My happiness.
And if you are already near,
perhaps
no telescope
could see you.
This poem
is for those
still searching for you.
Commentary
Textbooks define Polaris
as a fixed star.
But in reality,
it is a system of three stars
orbiting one another—
a relationship, not a point.
It appears fixed
only because
its position happens to align
with Earth’s axis of rotation.
We named that direction “north,”
and in doing so,
we made Polaris seem special.
But seen through a telescope,
Polaris is no longer special.
The moment we realize this,
we begin to understand:
every star around us
has always been happiness.
And then—
when we set the telescope down,
we finally see
ourselves,
surrounded by stars.
And also this:
the ground beneath our feet,
this Earth itself,
is a star.
So even if
the axis shifts,
and Polaris begins to move,
we are no longer afraid.
Because this Earth, too,
is already happiness.
✅👏👏👏😎