Scio Me Nihil Scire

I know that many people find it impossible to be a person of faith and a person of science.
A person of prophets and of professors.
I manage it. How? Because I can say that I know that I know nothing.

I’ve met some who don’t bother with school because “my reward for faith in the next life is all that matters.”
I’ve met some who don’t bother with church because “what I learn in this life is all that matters.”
I bother with both because when I die, I want to know what questions to ask.
I want to know how to go about pulling back the rest of the curtain and knowing how He did it all.
Because I will never be satisfied.
Because I know that no matter how much I read and no matter how much I think I know, I don’t.

Every time I believe I understand the contents of a room a door is opened in the back that I hadn’t even seen before.
A door that leads to other rooms and other hallways filled with other doors.
A new way to understand this Earth.
A new way to understand why we’re on it.
A new way to see everything, and a new way to question it all again and again.

This isn’t the hard part, though, the questioning.
The hard part comes in between philosophy and practicality.

I know that chairs are for sitting on and that if I sit on one, one that is sturdy, it will be solid and it will hold me.
But I also know now that if I were to sit there infinitely that, eventually, the atoms that make up that chair will arrange in such a way, that I will fall through it.
I should fear chairs.
Logically I should fear that at the moment I sit on one it just might be that moment when those atoms are going to let me fall.

Ignorance is not bliss, ignorance is sanity.

Apples come from apple trees, the biological purpose of an apple is, like many fruit, to provide nutrition for the seed, give it a way to grow and change and eventually become like its parent.
Apples are placentas.
I know that don’t want to eat a placenta.
But as I bite into an apple I don’t consider what I know comparatively about apples, I remember that I know that they’re healthy and that I’m hungry.

Sometimes I don’t give myself enough credit, because I do know things.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t because sometimes it’s nice to eat artificial raspberry candy without knowing that it might have been flavored by beaver gonad secretions.
Sometimes I wish I did because it’s hard to learn a new program when I keep clicking some unknown button that ruins the display.

No matter the case though, neither frustration or cringing can warrant a stop to discovery.

I recognize that knowing things is hard.
The effort to get there and the consequences of arrival; both can bring headaches but both bring progress.

Maybe I’m greedy, because, like a hoarder, I am never satisfied with what I have.
I always want more.
Maybe I’m a philanthropist, because I want to share what I’ve got.
Even if it isn’t much.
Even if it’s a weird fact you didn’t actually want to have on your mind.

There’s a fear in having your mind blown, in glimpsing the depth of your own ignorance.
You can take that fear in a couple different directions, but I often take it in both.
There’s sadness in realizing that, for all of your work and effort, there’s concepts and ideas that you haven’t even scraped at and perhaps never will.
A feeling of inadequacy and small insignificance.
But there’s another feeling.
A feeling of happiness because there is so much room for growth because you understand further just how magnificent and big you really are.

You’re a child of God with a unique spirit and the potential far beyond human understanding, a potential that stretches far beyond this life.
You’re a conglomerate of atoms and materials from countless galaxies and stars that blended together to create the miracle that is life.

Regardless of what anyone does or does not believe I know that we as humans are magnificent and capable of doing and knowing so much.
Good and bad
Big and small.

In the end, what do I know?
I know that layers in Photoshop are essential to using the program.
I know that it took me a long time to master them, and I know that I can still master them further.
I know that there are some things that I probably shouldn’t talk about while people are eating, especially if it’s a raspberry Jolly Rancher. Or an apple. Or an oyster from the Rockies.
I know that I want to be as open minded as I can both about religion and about school, but I know that no one is perfect.

Despite it all, I know that I will never stop exploring.

I will never stop asking.

I know that I know nothing and I know that I know some things.

And I want to know even more.


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