We Are Drowning in Words, While Starving for Wisdom

In his 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College, David Foster Wallace delivered the following parable:

“There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, ‘Morning, boys. How’s the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and asks, ‘What the hell is water?’”

It’s a requirement in any American commencement address that the speaker offer some kind of story intended to move the audience toward greater enlightenment.

Twenty years on, the parable still challenges us to recognize that the most obvious, ubiquitous, and important realities are often the hardest for us to see and talk about.

Like water, wisdom surrounds us yet remains largely invisible—odorless, colorless, and formless. We recognize its importance, yet it often eludes us. True wisdom, I’ve come to believe, manifests not in what we say but in how deeply we listen.

Hot Georgia Asphalt

A few years ago my daughter and I were driving on I-75 in Atlanta. Two cars collided at full speed. Both cars went into uncontrollable spins. I climbed over two concrete barriers to reach one of the heavily damaged vehicles.

I pulled a hysterical young woman named Suzanne from the wreckage and gently placed her on the hot Georgia asphalt.

I assessed her injuries and simply asked, “would it be okay if I stayed with you for a while?” See, in that moment she didn’t need words. She didn’t need affirmation. She simply needed someone to be present. We continued to sit in silence until the ambulance arrived.

This experience echoes what David Brooks points out in his 2021 column Wisdom Isn’t What You Think It Is. It’s not about dispensing clever sound bites. It’s more about the way wise people connect and relate to others. They bring a certain quality of attention to interactions, even without speaking. “Wise people don’t tell us what to do,” Brooks writes, “they start by witnessing our story.”

The Face of Wisdom

We all have a mental image of what wisdom looks like. Most of that comes from pop culture and Hollywood. Think: Dumbledore (Harry Potter), Yoda (Star Wars), or Obi-Wan Kenobi (Star Wars, again).

That kind of wisdom usually comes in snappy, digestible sound bites from pasty old men with long white beards. Or, in Yoda-isms like “clear your mind must be, if you are to find.” That’s neat, but that’s not wisdom.

Real wisdom rarely resembles these caricatures. It doesn’t emerge from clever sayings or mystical pronouncements. Real wisdom comes from deep listening and simply being present—a practice Eastern philosophical traditions have long emphasized, while Western traditions have tended to prioritize rhetoric and proclamation.

Silence is Golden

See, as E.O. Wilson said back in 1982, “We are drowning in information, while starving for wisdom.” It’s much worse today. If you printed all the information we create in one day, the stack would reach from the ground to the moon and back—10 times.

Most public discourse today—whether in politics, media, or dinner-table debates—consists of competitive talking rather than cooperative listening. The result is a world filled with constant chatter but diminishing understanding. Stephen Hawking captured this paradox beautifully: “Quiet people have the loudest minds.”

Real wisdom is quiet. It’s not about quoting Yoda or looking like Dumbledore. Real wisdom is about knowing when to talk and, more importantly, knowing when to listen. For Suzanne, I realized I didn’t need to offer platitudes or solutions. I simply needed to be present. I just needed to be calm—and to listen.

Real wisdom is about connecting with others on a deeper level. To tune in to what’s really being said, even if nobody is talking.

So, if listening connotates wisdom, why aren’t we better listeners? Because for nearly twenty years, our smartphones have been training us. We used to think interruptions were rude. Today, interruptions are the norm. And, those frequent interruptions have made us impatient and uncomfortable with silence.

Wise people understand that part of the magic is creating connection. It’s about letting people finish their thoughts. Because, oftentimes, people are simply going through a process. When we interrupt, we hijack the natural flow of that process and we kill the opportunity for connection.

Most Alcoholics Anonymous meetings do not allow “cross-talk.” When people have the floor, there is no interruption allowed. See, it’s about letting people go through the process. It’s about giving people enough space and time to reach their own conclusions.

When wise people do speak, it’s not rushed; it’s thoughtful and considerate. Wise people listen first and move slowly toward their conclusions. By simply listening, wise people “teach” others to logically reach their own conclusions as well. 

In our noisy, distracted world, I observe a growing hunger for authentic connection and understanding—a hunger for relationships that transcend superficiality and constant stimulation. This brings me back to Wallace’s water analogy. Wisdom resembles water not just in its invisibility, but in how it supports and sustains without calling attention to itself. 

Like water, wisdom creates the conditions for life and growth while remaining humble and unassuming. The wisest among us are often not those speaking the loudest or offering the clever quips. They’re the ones who have mastered the increasingly rare art of being fully present, listening deeply, and creating spaces where others can find their own way.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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