Sometimes, the cracks etched into tar roads or yellowing walls hold stories. Daisies bloom there, or tender weeds. As the years progress and the globe spins, the daisies and weeds become just as much a part of these structures as the rocks and sand that make them up. They become its skeleton, holding it up and giving it its very shape. An observant passerby may stop, press his ear to these buildings, and hear those daisies and weeds growing slowly within. He may notice that the sound of their existence is quiet but steady, like a heartbeat or the blink of learning eyes.
Knowledge, especially that gained in the silence of a private moment, tends to spread warmly like light from a rising sun. Knowledge, unlike information or facts, is wisdom that cannot be planted or fed. Inquisitive minds and compassionate hearts earn it. It is a puzzle that falls into place under the hands of determined people. The curious thing about knowledge is that it is available to everyone, but not everyone has been taught how to recognise it and absorb it when they encounter it. That is what we must learn. We must learn to recognise the parts of our world that are hidden in plain sight, begging for the grace of being observed. We must learn to hear the voices that are dissolved and flowing in the wind. We must learn to feel the warmth and coldness that people hide at the tips of their fingers as they extend them towards you.
When we see vines and weeds wrapped around old buildings, seemingly seeping into the very structure, it is easy to imagine they are giving the building its strength. They are giving it as much support as the building gave them when they were tender seedlings seeking an anchor to keep them upright. Once they are grown, the vines no longer need the building to survive. They could be cut or redirected and continue growing with the same vigour that they initially had. Nevertheless, they remain firmly attached to the building. They have no incentive to find a new path now.
When we are young, we adopt the values that we observe in our immediate surroundings. We have no anchor to base our identity around, so we build it around the conversations in our home, the movies we are allowed to watch and the lessons we are taught in school. Although we might encounter new ideas now and again, we primarily remain loyal to the morals and beliefs that we encounter steadily in our developing years. The belief system we depend on, whether “good” or “bad”, shapes the kind of person we become.
Like vines that take the shape of the structures that supported them as seedlings, we too are moulded by the belief systems we depended on during our development. Then, like vines that eventually support the building, we become agents and instruments of the system that once helped us build our identities. We may no longer need to be confined by the belief system, but we continue to depend on it and, in the process, keep it alive, since we have no incentive to seek a new path.
When we become vines fixed and cemented in a specific form, we stop truly seeing the world. Our perception of the world is no longer an active process where every new piece of knowledge changes the shape of our growth. Instead, seeing the world becomes an act of picking out information to affirm beliefs that we have already developed.
Now and then, we must challenge the most fundamental beliefs we have about ourselves and our world. We must reach deep within ourselves to find the views we believe are completely unshakeable and give them a good shake. Without occasionally questioning our beliefs, no matter how primal, we risk becoming sustainers of systems that have long outlived their positive impact.