In the quiet hours of a Saturday in May—when the world still slumbers and the mind, if rightly disciplined, may wander freely—I turn to these notes upon the teachings of one Michael Simmons, whose name appears here like a signpost on a woodland path. He speaks of a way to learn, not by mere accumulation, as one might gather driftwood upon the shore, but by deliberate craft, as the carpenter shapes timber to his purpose.
Do not, he warns, go about "collecting vocabulary without learning the grammar." Herein lies a truth as old as thought itself: words without structure are but noise; ideas without order scatter like leaves before the autumn wind.The true seeker must first equip himself with **lenses**—those clear glasses of the mind whereby he discerns what is worthy of notice amid the vast and bewildering flux of experience.
What shall I observe? What patterns hide in the commonplace? What meaning lies beneath the surface of things? These are the questions the lenses answer. They are the first instruments of discernment, teaching the eye to see not merely the leaf, but the tree; not the tree alone, but the forest and the soil from which it springs.
Once the lenses have caught the gleam of something true—be it a fact, a principle, or a fleeting insight—there follows the **operation**: the act of doing with what one has noticed. Here enter the **power tools**, those simple yet mighty implements of the intellect—questioning, connecting, testing, refining. What shall I do with this observation? Shall I question it as Socrates questioned his fellows in the marketplace? Shall I link it to some ancient truth or modern discovery? These operations are not idle motions; they are the hammer and chisel by which raw stone becomes statue.
But to stop here is to leave the work half-done. The wise man seeks **recipes**—not vague prescriptions, but precise sequences of steps, rooted in what has been noticed and wrought upon. These are the **blueprints** of the mind: specific paths for specific ends, forged from repeated trial.
One begins with a lens to perceive; applies an operation to shape; follows a recipe to complete. Then comes the cycle of judgment: blueprint laid down, work attempted, result evaluated, blueprint revised—and so again, in patient iteration, as the seasons turn and the craftsman grows surer.
Thus the mind is steadied, not by chance or native genius alone, but by method. In an age when information rushes upon us like a swollen river, threatening to drown the quiet voice of reflection, such a framework is no small gift. It bids us simplify: attend closely, act purposefully, systematize humbly, and refine without cease.
Live, then, not as one who merely collects, but as one who builds. Install these inner stabilizers—lenses, operations, recipes—and let the storms of distraction pass over without overturning the soul. In simplicity and deliberate practice lies the true freedom of the intellect; in such freedom, the possibility of a life examined and well-lived.