The More I Know

My elementary school consisted of two long buildings arranged in parallel lines, grades one through three on the left, grades four through six on the right. Each side had its own playground, and the green space in the middle was a sort of no-man’s land.

Because the principal’s office was on our side, occasionally one of the “big kids” would venture over, either to deliver a message or to receive a reprimand, and to my first-grade self, they seemed larger than life. I can remember thinking how smart I’d be when I got that big, how much stuff I’d know.

Well, I’m a lot bigger and older than a sixth grader now, and I’ve taken more classes than I can count. I’ve read tons of books, gone to many lectures, and earned several diplomas to hang on the wall. I’m fast approaching the end of my PhD studies, and I’ve learned more things about literature and life than I could have even dreamed existed way back in the first grade.

But the most important discovery I’ve made is this: The more I know, the more I know that I don’t know. Knowledge is a journey, not a destination.