Where Are All the Poets, Thinkers, and Philosophers?

I’m wandering like a lost soul amid a wealth, fame, and technology driven world and hoping to find my tribe

I’ve always loved poetry, and I have my English students focus on this genre more than any other.

And they hate it.

They say they don’t understand it. They say they don’t see how it will help them in their everyday lives. They mock me when I get so passionate about five stanzas of complex language that seem meaningless to them.

My response?

I tell them I love poetry because it’s a puzzle, a challenge for the reader to look beyond the surface meaning and find the author’s message about life, a message ultimately intended to improve our lives.

And I tell them this is also true of literature, philosophy, and psychology.

They’re all puzzles that, if put together, tell us what connects us as human beings, why we do the things we do, and what ideas and behaviors we may want to keep or change based on the thoughts of others.

And what I’m finding out through these students, social media, and the numerous writings of others is that very few people want the puzzle.

They want answers, not questions.

They don’t care to ponder how humans are connected by their fears, dreams, and challenges. They have no desire to read something solely designed to open their minds and challenge their thinking.

They want to know how to make money. How to write programs that ensure them six-figure incomes or six thousand followers on Instagram. How to convince the boss they should be promoted or make their side hustle profitable.

And I feel like an alien.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m a teacher, and yes, I want more dollars in my pocket too.

I want a hot tub in my backyard that I can get into when I’m stressed. I want money to put more presents under the Christmas tree for my children. And I want money to travel to Rome, see the works of Michelangelo and Da Vinci, and immerse myself in the past, in a world beyond my understanding.

But really, more than anything, I want to “drink deep,” as Alexander Pope wrote in his “Essay on Criticism.”

The actual quote reads:

“A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.”

And I may upset a lot of you by what I’m going to say next, but money and fame are “shallow draughts” for me.

I need meaning. I need to know what I’m put here for. I need to understand what others think, experience, and feel to put my own feelings and values into perspective.

And learning Python (I really don’t have a clue what this damn word means) or creating a successful side hustle isn’t really important to me.

I want to walk by the ocean and contemplate the lives of men who braved those waves without scientific navigation systems. I want to sit under the stars and allow them to help me remember why I’m here. I want to watch the sun rise and let it speak to me about my life, about what I’m missing out on when I sacrifice time and energy to achieve financial rewards or public validation.

I want to stare at a roaring fire in the middle of an ebony black night and find out what truths lie in the perfect peacefulness of nature. And I want those flames to burn away the outside world and open my inner one, so I can design a footprint to leave on this world to make it better when I’m gone.

I want to talk Shakespeare and Aristotle and figure out what I’m really here for, because I don’t think having a big house, fancy car, and internet fame is the answer.

And I’m so discouraged that I don’t see many people who want the same things.

So, if you’ve read this far, I’m hoping you’re a fellow tribe member.

Because if you are, you give me hope that other people out there understand that the answers to life and happiness actually lie in the questions we ask ourselves.

We thinkers, philosophers, and poets are a dying breed, and the world needs us more than ever, whether they think they do or not.

And if you’re with me, if you’re one of my tribe, you know exactly what I mean, don’t you?

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