Thorns of Knowledge: From Falls to Peace

Several years ago, while reading Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces (or perhaps another of his works), I encountered a remark that stopped me in my tracks. Campbell suggested that timeless, cultural stories endure because they resonate with the experiences we live in our own lives. At first, I was skeptical. How could ancient accounts, like the LDS interpretation of Adam and Eve, mirror my modern, tech-driven existence? But then it hit me: I've lived that story myself. And chances are, you have too.

The Fall: From Innocence to Awareness

In the story of Adam and Eve, the couple begins in Eden, a place of innocence and harmony. They eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and everything changes. They gain awareness, but at a cost: they're cast out into a world of toil, pain, and thorns (see Moses 4:23–25 in LDS scripture). For years, I thought this was merely a religious allegory. But upon questioning Joseph Campbell's assertion, I realized I'd experienced my own version of this fall.

I have a vision for how people should interact with computers—a system that doesn't yet exist but could make technology more intuitive and humane. Before this idea took root, I was "innocent." I used computers like most people, navigating clunky interfaces without much thought. But once I glimpsed what could be, I couldn't unsee it. Every time I struggle with a frustrating computer connection or interface, I'm reminded of this vision. The flaws I now notice are like thorns: they were always there, but I didn't perceive them until my perspective shifted. Like Adam and Eve, I'd tasted knowledge, and there was no going back to Eden.

Norman Doors: Everyday Falls

To make this idea more concrete, consider something mundane: doors. Some doors are called "Norman Doors," a term inspired by design expert Don Norman, though not coined by him. In his book The Design of Everyday Things, Norman describes doors that confuse users because their design doesn't clearly indicate whether to push or pull. Students and designers, reflecting on his principles of discoverability and signifiers, began calling such poorly designed doors "Norman Doors" in his honor. Before you learn about good design, you might blame yourself for struggling with a door. But once you know better, every Norman Door becomes a small betrayal of what should be. That fleeting frustration—when a door doesn't behave as you expect—is a thorn in your environment, interfering with what you're trying to accomplish. Your body has learned the "right way" doors should work and surfaces frustration when the door fails to meet that expectation.

This mirrors the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Eating the fruit doesn't just reveal good and evil in a moral sense; it awakens an awareness of what's right and introduces the judgments we make about what we deem right or wrong. Is a Norman Door right or wrong? No. It's just a door that doesn't behave as you expect. But the gap between expectation and reality becomes a thorn we must navigate to achieve our goals.

The Thorns of Knowledge

This shift in perception isn't limited to design. Perhaps you've had a moment when you realized a relationship could be healthier, a workplace could be fairer, or a habit could be better. Before that realization, you were innocent, unbothered by the flaws. But afterward, you can't unsee them. The thorns appear—not because the world changed, but because you did.

This is the heart of the Adam and Eve story. The knowledge of good and evil isn't just about morality; it's about perceiving the gap between what is and what could be. It's the burden of vision. For me, every clunky computer interface reminds me of a better way. For you, it might be a policy, a behavior, or a system that grates against your sense of what's right. This awareness brings joy (the vision of something better) and misery (the reality of what's not yet fixed).

A Path to Peace

The story of Eden teaches us there's no return to innocence. Adam and Eve couldn't un-eat the fruit, and we can't unsee the thorns once we've noticed them. I'll never interact with a computer the way I did before my vision for better design. You'll never walk through a Norman Door without a twinge of annoyance.

But the story doesn't end with thorns. There's a path to peace, rooted in how we respond to the knowledge we've gained. When I get frustrated with a computer interface, I can see that frustration as a signal—a judgment I'm making about the situation. Could the interface be different? Yes. Is it? No. The frustration reveals that I'm tying my happiness to something external changing, but that's a lie. I can be happy without it changing. I was happy before I knew there could be a better way, and I can choose to be happy now by letting go of the judgment that it should be different. The only difference between whether thorns impact me is the judgment I place on them.

This doesn't mean we should ignore the thorns or stop improving our world. We can work to fix a confusing door, refine a computer interface, or make a system fairer—and find satisfaction in those efforts. But true happiness and inner peace come from knowing that no external change can make us happy. Happiness is a choice we make within ourselves, independent of the thorns we see. In the LDS faith, this aligns with connecting to the spirit of Christ (see Moroni 7:16), who sees things as they truly are without letting external conditions dictate inner peace. When I step back from judging a computer interface, I see it as it is—a product of human effort, constraints, and trade-offs. I can name the thorn without letting it define my joy.

Living Peacefully with People

This path to peace becomes even more profound when applied to people. Unlike objects, people are not things to be fixed. Each person is an individual, not inherently right or wrong, good or bad, even if their actions may be judged as such. When we witness behavior that defies our expectations, the judgment we place on them as people can transform them, in our minds, from individuals into thorns. Our desire to "fix" them to match our expectations generates our own misery, much like we might wish to fix a Norman Door or a computer interface.

But when we release these judgments, we free ourselves from the thorns we've created. We see people as they are—imperfect, like us, yet inherently valuable. This not only restores our peace but also frees others from the excuses we give them to see us as thorns in their lives. Living peacefully means recognizing that our happiness doesn't depend on others changing, just as it doesn't depend on a door or a computer being different. By choosing to see people without judgment, we embody the spirit of Christ, fostering harmony in our relationships and communities.

Why Myths Matter

Joseph Campbell was right: stories like Adam and Eve's persist because they reflect our lived experiences. We all have our Edens, our moments of innocence before a revelation changes everything. We all encounter thorns when we see the world through the lens of what could be. And we all have the chance to find peace—not by returning to ignorance, but by embracing a higher perspective.

So, the next time you curse a confusing door, pause. You're not just experiencing a moment of frustration—you're living a timeless story. You've eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, and the thorns are proof of your awareness. But you also have the power to move beyond the misery, to see the world as it is, and to find eternal life in the present moment.

What's your Eden? What thorns have you noticed since you left it? And how might you find peace among them?

(NOTE: The ideas in this post are all mine, but AI was used to help build it out)