Some years ago, I took a course through Landmark Education. It wasn’t your average self-help weekend—no handouts, no PowerPoints, and absolutely no note-taking. You were asked to sit there, listen, and stay fully present. It was frustrating. In a world addicted to multitasking and screenshots, being told to “just listen” felt almost medieval.
But the instructor framed it differently: “Think of these ideas like a jacket you might buy. Try it on. See how it fits. Walk around in it. Wave your arms. Then decide whether to keep it or leave it on the rack.”
That simple metaphor stuck.
It’s become the way I look at writing—and especially how I approach Seed Scapes. Each post is a lens to try on, not a manifesto to tattoo on your arm.
Because if there’s one thing our culture has forgotten how to do, it’s try things on without having to buy them.
The Tyranny of Certainty
We now live in a time when almost every idea comes pre-labeled—Left or Right, Red or Blue, Hero or Villain. And if you dare to pick up a jacket from the “wrong” rack, someone will make sure the whole mall knows about it.
But that’s not the real problem.
The deeper rot lies in how media—on both sides—has stopped selling lenses and started selling prescriptions. The goal isn’t to help you see more clearly; it’s to make sure you never look through anything else.
Today’s media doesn’t teach us how to think—it tells us what to feel.
And those feelings come packaged with the illusion of certainty.
Certainty is a hell of a drug. It’s warm, validating, seductively easy, and one of the six human needs. But it’s also a mental straightjacket.
In a world moving this fast, most people don’t even bother to take in the whole jacket—they see one loose thread and declare the thing ruined. The irony is that the thread could have been snipped in a second if they’d paused long enough to look. How many times have you asked two questions in a text and received an answer to only one? Or watched an edited clip that reveals more about the editor’s worldview than the person speaking?
Perception itself has become a casualty of speed. Even my own last name—Raymonds—rarely survives intact. English speakers, native or not, often can’t see the “s.” Their eyes fix on the familiar Reynolds (I shit you not) or the simpler Raymond that is not there, and their minds fill in the rest. The brain, in its haste to recognize, refuses to see.
Now, layer AI on top of that. We’ve built machines that mirror these same human shortcuts—predictive engines that fill in what they expect to be there rather than what is. It’s the world’s most powerful autocorrect, applied not just to words but to meaning itself.
Mind Readers and Moral Oracles
It’s remarkable how much of modern commentary now depends on mind reading. We no longer just analyze actions; we divine intentions. Every gesture becomes a confession, every pause a coded threat. Someone tweets too fast, and suddenly we know what’s in their soul.
This habit has metastasized into something almost theological.
To “feel” that a person must be evil is now treated as evidence that they are.
If the vibes are wrong, the verdict is in.
It’s the opposite of trying on a jacket.
It’s walking into the store, seeing a color you dislike, and setting the place on fire.
The Echo and the Mirror
A friend of mine recently sent me a piece that compared Trump’s donors to Nazi war criminals. I’ll spare the author’s name—it’s not important. What matters is the reflex: the moral alarm bell that drowns out all nuance.
The irony, of course, is that essays like that—intended as warnings—often help fertilize the very soil they fear. When every opponent becomes Hitler, eventually no one believes it when the real danger arrives.
Meanwhile, others react by flipping the script, mistaking provocation for insight. The more they’re accused, the more righteous they feel. It’s a feedback loop built for algorithms, not for humans.
Both sides end up staring into mirrors that echo back their own disgust.
And that, perhaps, is the real tragedy of our time—not that people disagree, but that they can no longer see the other lens at all.
Trying On the World Again
Maybe the only way out is to reclaim the art of trying things on.
To read something without having to agree—or burn it.
To walk around in someone else’s idea for five minutes without demanding a refund.
Not every lens will fit. Some will distort, others will clarify. But the act of trying—that’s what keeps the mind alive. It’s what separates us from the algorithm.
So consider this piece another jacket on the rack.
Try it on.
Wave your arms.
See how it feels.
And if it doesn’t fit—leave it for someone else who might need it.
✨ Seed Thought: Truth doesn’t live in the jacket you keep. It hides in the ones you were willing to try on first.
I try to read a balance of books with which 50% are things I’m interested in, generally agree with and 50% of things I’m opposed to, or just not inclined with which to engage. Both paths are rewarding.