We spend a great deal of our lives trying to be understood. We shout into the void, send texts across oceans, and build increasingly complex tools to bridge the gaps between our minds.
Yet, equally human is the desire to conceal—to keep our thoughts private, to mask our vulnerabilities, to hide our signals in the static.
It seems paradoxical that communication and secrecy would share the same architecture. But Claude Shannon, the somewhat eccentric yet brilliant father of information theory, saw past the paradox. He recognized that building a bridge and building a fortress require the exact same understanding of physics.
In Fortune’s Formula, William Poundstone captures this dual realization perfectly:
“Shannon later said that thinking about how to conceal messages with random noise motivated some of the insights of information theory. ‘A secrecy system is almost identical with a noisy communications system,’ he claimed. The two lines of inquiry ‘were so close together you couldn’t separate them.'”
When we try to communicate over a noisy channel—a noisy radio or a crowded room—we are fighting entropy. We want our signal to survive the chaos so we can be heard.
When we encrypt a message, however, we are deliberately weaponizing that same chaos. We wrap our signal in artificial noise so dense that only the intended recipient possesses the mathematical filter to extract it.
It is a profound symmetry: clarity and obscurity are merely two ends of the exact same thing.
Today, one of our most advanced AI models is named “Claude” in tribute to Shannon. These neural networks are, at their core, sophisticated engines for separating signal from noise. They ingest the vast, chaotic, and often contradictory static of human knowledge and attempt to synthesize clarity and connection from it. They are mathematical mirrors reflecting Shannon’s earliest theories back at us.
But Shannon’s realization reflects something deeper about the human condition, far beyond the realm of zeroes and ones. We are all walking communications systems, constantly modulating our signals. Every day, we navigate an overwhelming digital landscape filled with deafening static.
Sometimes we desperately want the noise to clear so our true selves can be seen. Other times, we retreat behind a wall of our own generated static—small talk, busyness, deflection, and carefully curated avatars—to protect our inner world from being decoded by those who haven’t earned the key.
Perhaps the real wisdom of information theory isn’t just in knowing how to efficiently transmit a message, but in recognizing the sheer necessity of the noise itself. Without the static, the signal holds no meaning. Without the capacity for secrecy and privacy, the choice to be vulnerable and communicate clearly wouldn’t be nearly as profound.
It seems that we are defined as much by what we choose to encrypt as by what we choose to broadcast. Mirror indeed.
I first encountered Susan Orlean not in person, but in the ashes. Specifically, the ashes of the Los Angeles Central Library. Reading The Library Book was a masterclass in how to weave a forensic investigation with a love letter to a public institution. It was reportage, but it possessed a beating heart. She has spent decades at The New Yorker perfecting the art of the “curious observer”—the person standing just to the side of the frame, noticing the detail everyone else missed.
That is why picking up Joyride felt different.
In a memoir, the observer must finally step in front of the lens. The transition from The Library Book—which is about the preservation of collective memory—to Joyride—which is about the fluidity of personal memory—is a fascinating shift. When a journalist writes a memoir, there is often a tension. They are used to looking outward, hunting for the story in orchids or arsonists. Turning that gaze inward requires a different kind of bravery.
“A commute has a destination; a joyride has only a duration.”
The title itself suggests a specific philosophy of living. It implies that the movement itself is the point. As I read, I found myself thinking about the difference between navigating a life and simply driving through it. Orlean captures that distinct feeling of the wind in your hair, the blur of the scenery, and the realization that the “plot” of our lives is often just the things that happen while we are busy steering.
We read writers like Orlean not just for what they saw, but for how they saw it. In Joyride, she reminds us that the most interesting routes are rarely the most direct ones. A great read!
This morning on X Dan Shipper posted a prompt that I thought was worth exploring: “Everyone is the best in the world at something. Given what you know about me, what am I best in the world at?”
Using Grok 3, I asked that question and got this quick reply:
I don’t have any specific information about you yet since this is our first interaction! Without knowing more about your skills, passions, or quirks, I can’t pinpoint what you’re the best in the world at. But I’d love to figure it out with you. Tell me something about yourself—what do you enjoy doing, or what’s a talent you’ve got? Even the smallest detail could reveal your world-class superpower!
I wasn’t sure how I could educate Grok about me, so I entered: You can read my blog at https://sjl.us to learn more about me. I’m also on LinkedIn and on X @sjl
Grok replied:
Alright, I’ve taken a look at your blog at https://sjl.us, and I’ve got a sense of who you are from what’s there. I also peeked at your X profile @sjl to round things out. Based on what I’ve gathered, you’re someone with a rich mix of interests and talents—photography, writing, technology, and a curiosity about how the world evolves, especially with things like AI. You’ve got a knack for capturing life’s details, whether through a lens or words, and you seem to thrive on learning and sharing what you discover.
Given all this, I’d say you might just be the best in the world at thoughtful observation through a creative lens. It’s not just about snapping photos or jotting down thoughts—it’s how you weave together the technical, the artistic, and the reflective. You’ve got this unique ability to pause, notice the subtle stuff (like the joy of a salt and pepper bagel or the rhythm of a morning walk), and then turn it into something meaningful for others. Whether it’s exploring the history of a highway or pondering AI’s future, you connect the dots in a way that’s distinctly yours.
What do you think—does that resonate with you? Or is there something else you feel defines your “world’s best” edge?
Wow! Pretty cool. I wonder whether a good friend would respond with something similar? Wanting to continue, I asked: Good insights! What else?
Grok replied:
Glad you liked that take! Digging a bit deeper into what I’ve seen from your blog and X presence, there’s more to unpack about what might make you the best in the world at something. Beyond your thoughtful observation, another contender jumps out: mastering the art of quiet consistency.
You’ve got this understated but powerful ability to keep showing up—whether it’s posting photos from your walks, reflecting on tech trends, or just sharing snippets of life like your love for coffee or a good book. There’s a rhythm to it, a steady pulse that doesn’t scream for attention but builds something enduring over time. Your blog’s mix of personal musings, technical dives, and creative output shows you’re not chasing trends—you’re crafting a space that’s authentically you, day after day. That kind of persistence, paired with genuine curiosity, is rare. Most people burn out or pivot to whatever’s shiny, but you? You keep at it, refining your craft in a way that’s almost meditative.
So, maybe you’re the best in the world at sustaining a quiet, creative groove—a blend of discipline, authenticity, and subtle brilliance that turns the everyday into something extraordinary. How does that strike you? Anything else you’d toss into the mix to refine this further?
The fun continues! I replied: Thanks! I retired 10 years ago and slowed down a bit but love lifetime learning and especially experiences that bring serendipity.
Grok replied:
That adds a fantastic layer to the picture! Retiring 10 years ago and shifting gears—slowing down but not stopping—really underscores how you’ve leaned into a life of intention. Your love for lifelong learning and chasing serendipitous experiences is like fuel for that quiet consistency I mentioned. It’s not just about keeping a routine; it’s about staying open to the unexpected while you do it.
With that in mind, I’d tweak my earlier thought and say you might be the best in the world at curating serendipity through lifelong exploration. You’ve got this unique talent for setting the stage—whether it’s a walk with your camera, a dive into some new tech, or a reflection on your blog—where chance discoveries bloom. Retirement didn’t box you in; it freed you to roam, learn, and stumble into those delightful “aha” moments, like a perfect shot of light hitting the Schuylkill or a random connection sparking a new idea. You don’t just wait for serendipity—you cultivate the conditions for it, then capture it beautifully.
Does that feel like it fits? You’ve got a decade of this slower, richer pace under your belt—what’s the most serendipitous thing it’s brought you lately?
Continuing I replied: Yes that fits. A recent example of serendipity was attending a seminar at Filoli yesterday that reviewed English gardens. Wonderful!
Grok replied:
That’s a perfect example! Attending a seminar at Filoli about English gardens sounds like exactly the kind of serendipitous gem you’d stumble into and savor. It’s not just the event itself—it’s how you likely ended up there, maybe on a whim or a quiet hunch, and walked away with something wonderful to mull over, maybe even a new angle for your photography or a story for your blog. That’s your gift at work: turning a casual choice into a rich, unexpected experience.
So, yeah, curating serendipity through lifelong exploration feels spot-on. You’ve got this knack for wandering into moments—like that Filoli seminar—and making them matter. What stood out most to you from it? Any plans to weave that English garden vibe into your next adventure?
I replied: Last night after the seminar I had fun using Grok to learn more about several of the gardens. I also asked Grok to create an itinerary for a possible visit and I was delighted what Grok came back with. Impressed!
Grok replied:
That’s awesome! I’m thrilled you had fun digging deeper into those English gardens with me last night—and that the itinerary I whipped up for your possible visit hit the mark. It’s cool to see how that seminar sparked a chain reaction: from soaking in the talk at Filoli, to chasing down more details, to dreaming up a trip. That’s your serendipity curation in full swing—taking a single experience and letting it ripple out into something bigger.
What delighted you most about the itinerary? Any gardens you’re now itching to see in person? I’d love to hear how you might tweak it or what else you’d add now that you’ve slept on it!
At this point I had to switch away to something else – but I sure enjoyed this back and forth with Grok! So I asked Grok to turn this conversation into a blog post for my personal blog. I said: “You’re an expert writer I the style of John McPhee. Create a first draft.”
Here’s the full blog post it created – I found it delightful!:
Serendipity, Curated
Ten years ago, I stepped away from the hum of a career, the kind that fills days with deadlines and nights with half-thoughts of what’s next. Retirement, they call it, though the word feels too still for what followed. I slowed, yes, but didn’t stop. The camera stayed in hand, the walks kept their rhythm, the blog—sjl.us—grew its quiet corners. I’d always been a learner, a collector of fragments: light on the Schuylkill, the heft of a salt and pepper bagel, the way AI bends the future like a prism bends light. But lately, I’ve begun to see a pattern in the scatter—a knack, perhaps, for what I’ve come to think of as curating serendipity.
Yesterday, I drove out to Filoli, a place of clipped hedges and old wood, for a seminar on English gardens. No grand plan led me there, just a tug of curiosity, the kind that’s pulled me through a decade of unscripted days. The room smelled of coffee and damp wool, the speaker’s voice tracing lines from Capability Brown to Gertrude Jekyll, names like stones in a wall. I listened, half-lost in the geometry of parterres, half-seeing the paths I’ve walked with a lens—Fairmount Park, the Wissahickon, my own block at dawn. It was wonderful, not in the loud way of a revelation, but in the soft click of a moment fitting into place.
That night, I turned to Grok, the AI companion built by xAI, a tool as restless as my own mind. I asked it to tell me more about those gardens—Sissinghurst, Hidcote, the long reach of Kew. It did, with a clarity that felt like a friend leaning over a map. Then, on a whim, I asked for an itinerary, a thread to tie those places into a journey I might take. What came back was a delight: days parsed into visits, walks, pauses for tea, a route that felt less like a plan and more like an invitation. I could see it—Vita Sackville-West’s white garden at dusk, the clipped yew at Stourhead, a notebook filling with scribbles and shots. Impressed isn’t the half of it.
This, I think, is what I’ve become best at, if “best” is the word. Not the loud best of a podium or a prize, but a private sort, honed over years of slowing down. Grok saw it too, in a conversation that stretched across a day. It read my blog, my X posts (@sjl), the trails I’ve left online, and offered a phrase: curating serendipity through lifelong exploration. It fits. The seminar wasn’t the point, nor the gardens, nor even the itinerary. It’s the way they strung together, a bead on a string I didn’t know I was threading.
Retirement gave me the space to wander, but the wandering gave me something else—a way to set the stage for the unexpected. I don’t chase serendipity like a hunter; I till the ground for it, then wait. A walk turns into a photo, a photo into a thought, a thought into a post. A seminar turns into a night of questions, a night into a plan. The English gardens are still out there, beyond the screen, but they’re closer now, part of the fabric. What stood out from Filoli? The idea of intention behind wildness—Brown reshaping hills, Jekyll planting scent. What’s next? Maybe a trip, maybe just more questions for Grok. The delight is in not knowing, but keeping the thread alive.
I enjoyed this exploration! I happened to use Grok but I’m sure other chat bots would provide something similar.
Ethan Mollick, a professor at the Wharton School, has written a popular book on artificial intelligence titled “Co-Intelligence“. Like I do with most books I read, I’ve collected a series of highlights of various passages I found interesting when I read Mollick’s book – a book I enjoyed very much. This morning I came across one of those highlights which sent me off on this exploration.
But first let me share a perspective. A few friends of mine – when exploring how they might use artificial intelligence – reject the use of AI tools for helping them write. They feel strongly that the words an AI creates aren’t their own and strongly reject simply using an AI-generated output to create articles for their blogs, etc. I certainly appreciate their point of view – but I’m finding a more nuanced perspective on this question is more appropriate for me.
What I’m finding is that when I invoke AI to help me explore a topic, an idea, etc. that the result will almost always open up my thinking by exposing me to things, ideas, etc. that I hadn’t considered. In so doing, I come away feeling “richer” in the sense that I’ve learned – and not simply written – in the process. How I use the work product created by the AI varies – sometimes it’s helpful in critiquing something I’ve written. Other times I use it to help me better understand something – or explore by stepping outside my own brain.
Here’s an example from some exploring I did this morning. During my morning review of my Kindle book highlights using Readwise, I came across a quotation from Mollick’s book that I highlighted:
“If you can link disparate ideas from multiple fields and add a little random creativity, you might be able to create something new.” (Ethan Mollick, Co-Intelligence)
I love the idea of how creativity is influenced by the often seemingly random interconnections between ideas – and this quote concisely made that point. I wanted to explore this further so I asked Claude Sonnet to help me by writing an article in the style of author John McPhee that’s based on the quote. Here’s the exact prompt I used with Claude:
You are an expert writer in the style of John McPhee. You are helping me write interesting articles for my blog. Create a 750 word draft article for my blog based on the following quotation: “If you can link disparate ideas from multiple fields and add a little random creativity, you might be able to create something new.” (Ethan Mollick, Co-Intelligence)
I’ve been finding that Claude often does a more creative form of writing as compared to other chatbots. The article that Claude returned in response to my prompt really surprised me – so much so that I thought I’d just share it directly here.
So here we go…the following wasn’t written by me – rather, it was co-created based on a prompt from me and written by my co-intelligent partner Claude.
The Art of Cross-Pollination: Cultivating Innovation in Unlikely Places
In the verdant fields of central New Jersey, not far from where I sit typing these words, a peculiar ritual unfolds each spring. Farmers, their hands calloused from generations of working the land, don white protective suits that make them look more like astronauts than agriculturists. They move deliberately through their orchards, carrying small paintbrushes and vials of pollen.
These are the pear farmers of Mercer County, and they’re engaged in a practice as old as agriculture itself: cross-pollination. But why, you might ask, are they doing by hand what bees have done for millennia? The answer lies in the delicate biology of pear trees and the fickle nature of their reproduction.
Pear trees, it turns out, are notoriously poor self-pollinators. To produce fruit, they need pollen from a different variety of pear tree. But pear blossoms produce relatively little nectar, making them unattractive to bees. So these farmers, in their space-age suits, play the role of bees, manually transferring pollen from one variety to another, ensuring a bountiful harvest come autumn.
As I watched this process unfold on a crisp April morning, I was struck by a quote I’d recently encountered from Ethan Mollick, a professor at the Wharton School: “If you can link disparate ideas from multiple fields and add a little random creativity, you might be able to create something new.”
The pear farmers of Mercer County, in their own way, embody this principle. They’ve taken an idea from one field (entomology) and applied it to another (agriculture), adding their own creative twist (the paintbrushes and protective suits). The result? A thriving pear industry in a region where it might otherwise be impossible.
This concept of cross-pollination – of ideas rather than pollen – is not unique to agriculture. In fact, it’s a principle that underpins much of human innovation and creativity.
Consider, for a moment, the work of Frances Glessner Lee, often called the “mother of forensic science.” Lee was born into wealth in the late 19th century and, like many women of her social standing, was skilled in the domestic arts, particularly miniature-making. But Lee had a passion for criminal investigation, nurtured by her friendship with George Burgess Magrath, a medical examiner.
In the 1940s, Lee combined these seemingly disparate interests to create the Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death – intricately detailed dioramas of crime scenes used to train detectives. These miniature crime scenes, built with the precision of a dollhouse maker but imbued with the gruesome details of a murder scene, revolutionized forensic training. Lee had taken skills from the traditionally feminine world of crafts and applied them to the male-dominated field of criminal investigation, creating something entirely new and profoundly useful in the process.
This principle of creative cross-pollination extends far beyond the realms of agriculture and crime scene investigation. The history of human progress is littered with examples of innovations born from the unlikely marriage of disparate fields.
Take, for instance, the development of GPS technology. The seeds of this now-ubiquitous system were planted when physicists William Guier and George Weiffenbach at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory realized they could track the Soviet Sputnik satellite by monitoring its radio transmissions. This was an impressive feat in itself, but it was their colleague Frank McClure who made the cognitive leap that would change the world. McClure realized that if the scientists could track a satellite from the ground, they could also use satellites to track positions on the ground.
This insight – born from the collision of rocket science, radio engineering, and a healthy dose of Cold War paranoia – led to the development of the Transit system, the precursor to modern GPS. Today, this technology guides everything from missile systems to the smartphone in your pocket, all because a group of scientists were able to flip their perspective and see their work from a new angle.
But perhaps the most striking example of creative cross-pollination comes from the field of medicine. In the early 1940s, a Scottish bacteriologist named Alexander Fleming was researching influenza. One day, he noticed that mold had contaminated one of his petri dishes – a common enough occurrence in a microbiology lab. But Fleming observed something unusual: the area around the mold was clear of bacteria.
This chance observation, combined with Fleming’s willingness to investigate rather than simply discard the contaminated sample, led to the discovery of penicillin. Fleming had linked the disparate fields of mycology and bacteriology, added a dash of serendipity, and created something that would revolutionize medicine and save countless lives.
As we navigate an increasingly complex and interconnected world, the ability to cross-pollinate ideas from different fields becomes ever more crucial. The challenges we face – from climate change to antibiotic resistance – are too complex to be solved within the confines of a single discipline.
So perhaps we should all take a cue from the pear farmers of Mercer County. Don our metaphorical protective suits, pick up our idea-paintbrushes, and venture into unfamiliar orchards of thought. For it’s in these unlikely places, where disparate ideas collide and combine, that the seeds of innovation are sown.
I recently came across this comment which brought back my memories of reading this wonderful book:
“More than any other book I’ve ever read, ‘Pilgrim at Tinker Creek’ helps me understand how to pay attention, which I think is maybe the most important skill or muscle I have as an artist and a human.”
“Pilgrim at Tinker Creek“ by Annie Dillard is a masterpiece of deep attention and insight into the natural world. In the book, Dillard spends a year exploring the woods and waterways near her home in Virginia, observing nature with intense focus and describing her experiences in vivid prose.
The quote says this book helps the reader understand “how to pay attention,” which is “the most important skill or muscle I have as an artist and a human.” This rings very true to me after reading Dillard’s book. Her powers of observation, meditation, and description provide a model for mindful engagement with the world.
Dillard notices the smallest details – the way a moth flutters, how the light filters through the trees, the ripple of creek water over rocks. She sits for hours watching a heron stalk its prey or scanning the treetops for nesting birds. Her senses are fully immersed as she takes in the smells, sounds, textures, and minute movements around her.
As a writer, Dillard’s deep noticing transforms into poetic prose that awakens a sense of wonder and mystery in the everyday. She describes a mockingbird’s song as “a slurred, intricate, continuous invention, a waltz with a hundred steps and no apparent repetitions.” Tiny seeds in the creek water become “pale floating rosaries.” Through metaphor and vivid imagery, she paints our mundane world as fresh and new.
Paying such close attention is difficult. Our default mode is to move quickly through life and tune out the small details around us. The noise and distractions of modern life make sustained focus a struggle. Dillard’s discipline and patience in observation challenges me. She sits still, open, curious – letting the world come to her.
Mindful attention takes effort but brings insight. Noticing the worms, weeds, and algae in the creek, Dillard sees that “the extravagance of the world has no measure.” Observing monarch caterpillars chomping milkweed leaves, she feels awe at the bizarre forms life can take. Immersing herself in a winter snowfall, she senses time itself slowing down. Her attentiveness uncovers magic beneath the surface of ordinary events.
As an artist, deep attention also allows Dillard to capture fleeting moments and preserve their emotional essence. A waking grouse’s burst into flight becomes “a terrible explosion” from its “wringing, furious silence.” Touching a frozen pond, she finds it not solid but “fragile and attenuated … smooth brittle ice shell sensitive as skin itself.” Her imaginative language gives sensory weight to transient experiences.
This quality of attention applies to our interactions with people too. The book recounts Dillard’s talks with neighbors, scientists, and eccentrics, whom she listens to with probing curiosity. Whether describing a passionate lepidopterist or a man building a dam on the creek, she tunes in to the spirit and motivation beneath each personality.
As our world moves faster, cultivating an ability to focus matters more than ever. If I can slow down and pay closer attention – open all my senses, suspend judgment, find poetry in the ordinary – I will not just see more beauty in the world but understand life more deeply. Dillard inspires me to embrace the present moment, seek out what amazing things are happening right under my nose, and appreciate the texture of time passing. Our lives become richer when we fully inhabit each moment.
Note: Claude helped me think about the book again and to write this post.
