Ignorance is Bliss

A baby waved at me over its mother's shoulder. I'd done nothing to get its attention, yet, from across the crowded, busy room it picked me out, miraculously. As you might imagine, was at once filled with joy at being recognized by this unspoiled human. It made me feel special, good, worthy. And then, in a flash, I realized it wasn't waving at me, but rather assertively patting its mother's back, not aware of me at all.

In a moment I went from joy to disappointment. I would have been better off emotionally had I continued on in my ignorance. Had I looked away a moment earlier, I might have carried on with my morning on the cloud of believing I'd been picked out for special recognition from a baby who didn't know me from Adam. 

Instead I got the truth.

Maybe I shouldn't say this, but I don't always want, or even need, the truth. We live in "The Information Age" (or "Computer Age" or "Digital Age"), but a more accurate name for it would be "The Age of Attention" because in a world in which information is abundant, the rarest commodity is our attention. We are inundated by appeals for our attention. We complain of "distractions." We decry social media or YouTube or video games or email or texts because they take, often without our permission, our attention away from those things to which we should or want to pay attention. It's pitched to us as a "service," dings and rings and other notifications that promise we won't miss a thing. We will always be up to date, informed about things we really don't need to know or would rather not know, at least not right now when we're, say, being waved at by a baby. 

Looked at another way, however, we see that we're being robbed of our bliss, our momentary ignorance. It's no wonder so many of us go through modern life feeling slightly disappointed and even cynical. Ignorance can also kill, of course, but there's no denying that life is often better when we're left with our beautiful ignorance . . . At least until we ourselves decide we're ready.

When we turn off our screens, we find there is, say, a small flock of Northern Bluebirds outside the window, pecking at the ground, chittering good morning to me . . . In that moment of bliss, I don't need to be informed the that that those birds are unaware of me any more than I needed to learn that the baby wasn't waving at me. When I turn my attention to the way the afternoon sun feels on my skin, the information that I'm increasing my risk of skin cancer curdles my bliss. The joy and connection of a family gatherings is spoiled by the ill-timed lecture, in the name of "getting real," about atrocities somewhere in the world. 

It's as if the modern world can't bear out momentary blissful ignorance. I suppose I get it. I mean, after all, we're supposed to be truth-seekers, right? And truth doesn't necessarily lead to happiness. As educators, our profession is all about helping people overcome their ignorance. Science is a process of using logic and reason to replace ignorance with facts. Like most things, truth it's a blessing wrapped in a curse and vice versa.

Schrödinger's Cat is a famous thought experiment that asks us to imagine a cat in a closed box with a mechanism that might kill it. As long as the box remains closed, as long as ignorance is maintained, the cat can be considered simultaneously alive and dead. Of course, we think, "Certainly, it's either one or the other," but without observing the cat, we are stuck with the paradox of it being both alive and dead. Science, reason, and truth all demand that we open the box, but hope, wonder, and curiosity -- more magnificent words for ignorance -- would rather we leave the box shut.

Too often, I think, we adults responsible for educating others believe that it's our job to open all the boxes, but in doing so we rob learners of their hope, wonder, and curiosity. We take away the awe that comes with ignorance. Speaking for myself, I'm not nearly as motivated by answers as I am by questions. Answers are dry, inert things, while questions demand action, through, and wonder. If we really want motivated learners, perhaps we should let them decide when, or even if, they will open the box.

I was once observing a girl using a hamster wheel as a corral for her ponies. A well meaning adult informed her of the truth that her fencing was, in fact, a hamster wheel. The girl asked, "Do we have any hamsters?" When she was told that we didn't, she gathered her ponies and walked away, her ignorance and bliss replaced by fact and disappointment.

Why couldn't she have continued on in her ignorance? Why couldn't I have gone through the rest of my day believing a baby had waved at me. Truth is important and ignorance can be dangerous, but not always, and it's not my job to open that box for you. 

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