Interest: A Gaze of the Heart That Meets the World Anew
A short breaking news headline.
The United States had attacked Iran’s nuclear facilities.
That single line lingered in my mind for a long time.
Why is the Middle East always poised on the edge of war?
That initial interest led me into the history of conflict in the Middle East and the complexities of Islamic culture.
It became a thread, unraveling into further questions—the Iran-Iraq War that began in 1980, the division between Shia and Sunni, and eventually the very nature of Islam as a religion.
Fragmented pieces of knowledge slowly began to connect, and a larger picture came into view.
Looking back, it always begins with interest.
Even if something has nothing to do with me directly, there are moments when my heart latches on.
Interest moves us quietly, but unmistakably.
The same applies to human relationships.
If we want to understand someone, we must first take an interest in them.
Without interest, we judge others based on assumptions, which too often harden into misunderstandings.
When we say, “I just don’t understand that person’s choices,” it’s usually indifference that lies beneath.
Understanding doesn’t start from knowledge. It begins with interest.
Interest also makes us speak to things.
I once wrote about a hydrangea.
It was during the rainy season. One fragile stem, too weak to bear the weight of its own blossom, eventually snapped.
At the time, I viewed the scene as a metaphor for desire and humility.
But looking back now, I see that all thought began from one small moment of interest.
A flower I could’ve simply passed by—I looked at it one more time.
That’s what interest is: offering your heart to something wordless.
And once your heart reaches it, you’re finally ready to understand it.
Interest is not the same as merely seeing.
To see is to let your gaze rest.
But interest is when your gaze carries the weight of your heart.
It is to pause, to look once more, to speak inwardly to something silent.
And in doing so, a new world enters you.
Physicist Richard Feynman once used a single flower to make this point.
An artist, he said, may speak of a flower’s beauty, while a scientist explains its structure and photosynthesis.
Many think that scientific explanation destroys beauty, but Feynman believed the opposite:
“Scientific knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery, and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.”¹
The moment we wish to know a flower—that is, the moment we give it our heart—
a new flower blooms inside us.
Interest opens up the intricate structures, the interplay of light and color, the mechanisms of life.
And it guides us toward a deeper understanding of existence.
A similar example lies in everyday life.
Parents often know when their child says “I’m fine,” whether they really are or not—just from a tone or glance.
To others, it’s just a phrase. But a parent knows:
“That’s not what ‘fine’ really means.”
Signals that go unheard without interest reach the heart first when interest is there.
These two examples—scientific and personal—tell the same story:
Understanding begins not from effort, but from the act of offering your heart.
That is the very first door through which we meet the world, again and anew.
Note1. Richard P. Feynman, The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, 1999. “The science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.”