The trouble with knowledge

We know so much these days.

We can predict the weather days in advance, simulate the big bang, trace neural pathways in the brain, split atoms, and 3D-print working organs.

We’ve catalogued over two million species, charted the ocean floor, and sent probes beyond the edge of the solar system.

We’ve become very good at knowing things.

But here’s the strange part: 95% of the universe is made up of something we can’t explain. Not a rounding error - ninety-five percent!!!

Dark matter and dark energy.

They don’t emit light. We’ve never seen them directly. We only know they exist because of how they shape the things we can see.

That should shake you a little. It should humble you. It should, at the very least, remind you that we’re still beginners at all this.

And yet, we go about our lives as if the world is solved. As if we’ve mapped out all the territory.

But awe begins where certainty ends.

The Hidden Cost of Certainty

Modern life loves certainty. We label, categorise, and optimise.

We act like the world is a problem to be solved or a system to be hacked.

And look, that impulse isn’t wrong. It builds bridges. It makes planes fly and keeps your coffee hot for just long enough.

But it comes at a cost: we lose our capacity for wonder.

We stop being curious.

We get too comfortable in our assumptions, in our definitions of success, happiness, identity - even reality. We start thinking of life as a closed loop rather than an open question.

And when awe disappears, what replaces it? Numbness, maybe. Cynicism?

A quiet despair that comes from thinking everything has already been discovered, already been said?

But the truth is, we live in a universe where most of what exists is literally unknown.

The cosmos is humming with mystery, and we barely hear the tune.

Light Searching for the Dark

There’s something profoundly beautiful about light’s endless pursuit of darkness.

It’s not trying to banish the dark, just reveal its shape. Illuminate what’s hidden.

Not destroy, but understand. That’s what I think awe does for us.

It helps us hold paradoxes without resolving them. It teaches us to stay with the mystery instead of rushing to explain it.

But more than that, it invites us to delight in the not knowing.

You see this in science all the time. The most brilliant minds often sound like poets, because when you stand at the edge of the known, language has to stretch.

Einstein once said, “The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science.”

So maybe the goal isn’t to figure it all out. Maybe the goal is to let ourselves feel the weight of the unknown, and be delighted by it.

Living with the Sublime

Sublime is a word we don’t use much anymore. It sounds old-fashioned, like something you’d find in a dusty Romantic poem.

It used to mean "inspiring awe" though it's come to mean something much more mundane. Something that's merely better than average. e.g. "that fudge brownie is sublime".

But that's a shame, because I think we need the original meaning more than ever today.

The sublime is what happens when beauty and fear mix. When you stand on a mountaintop or under a star crushed sky and feel small but not insignificant.

It’s not comfortable. But it’s real. It’s energising. It wakes us up.

Because here’s the thing: if we forget to wonder, if we stop looking up, we risk losing something essential. Not just as individuals, but as a species.

We start to believe that the world is just what we see in our calendars, our inboxes, our newsfeeds.

We start thinking that life is supposed to be efficient instead of enchanted.

But enchantment isn’t a luxury. It’s a responsibility. Especially in a time where everything is optimised for speed, convenience and distraction.

Awe Isn’t Passive

Here’s the trap: we think awe is something that happens to us. Like a meteor shower or spiritual enlightenment. But I’ve come to believe awe is something we cultivate. Something we choose.

It starts with slowing down. Paying attention.

Noticing the strange pattern on a leaf, the sound of birds at dusk, the way your breath fogs a window. Small things, but they tether you to the vastness of it all.

It also means engaging with things you don’t understand.

Reading about black holes or quantum mechanics, not because you’ll become an expert, but because even scratching the surface can jolt you into humility.

It means asking questions that don’t have clear answers. Staying curious. Embracing wonder as a daily practice, not an occasional epiphany.

Awe won’t fix everything. But it gives you something to stand on when the ground feels shaky.

It reminds you that mystery isn’t something to fear—it’s something to live with.

A Few Things to Try This Week

If you’re feeling a bit dulled by routine, or if the world just feels too heavy to hold, here are a few ways to reconnect with awe:

• Stargaze, even briefly. No telescope needed. Just look up and remember that most of what’s out there is invisible—and we’re floating in the middle of it.
• Read something confusing. Not frustrating, just complex. A bit of physics, philosophy, or deep nature writing. Let yourself be okay with not fully getting it.
• Visit a place that makes you feel small. A mountain, a forest, a cathedral. Anywhere that makes you stop and say “wow.”
• Ask a child a big question. “What do you think the universe is made of?” Their answers may surprise you.
• Create something pointless. A doodle, a poem, a song. Let yourself play, not for results, but for wonder’s sake.

I don’t think we’re meant to understand everything. I think we’re meant to wonder at it. To be humble in the face of the vastness, and still choose to build, to love, to create.

Light keeps searching for the dark. Not to conquer it, but to see it more clearly.

I think we should do the same—with the world, with each other, with ourselves.

We have a responsibility to awe. Let’s not forget it.

Until next time,

Jon "wonderman" Kaye

Finding meaning in Monday mornings

P.S.

Send me something to confuse me, to intrigue me, to inspire me. Something I won't understand. Something to fill me with awe.

Here's my suggestion for you.