I don't understand computers. I've been unable to construct a

“I don’t understand computers. I’ve been unable to construct a working mental model of how they do what they do. I can break software by looking at it. I can blow anything up. Without trying. It’s sort of like being a dowser. And this extreme elaborate clumsiness on my part is actually something people will pay me for. It’s quite wonderful.” — thus spoke Brenda Laurel, a pioneer of the digital age, a philosopher of the interface between humans and machines. Yet her words are not a confession of ignorance, but a song of paradox, a dance between frailty and brilliance. For within her self-professed clumsiness lies a deep truth: that the power of creation does not belong only to those who master every gear and circuit, but to those who feel their way through mystery — who, in not understanding, discover new forms of wisdom.

Her statement, at first glance, seems humorous — a designer of technology who admits she cannot fully grasp the machine. Yet in her humility lies the essence of genius. For to admit one’s inability to fully comprehend is to open the door to wonder. In an age where many worship logic and precision, Laurel reminds us that creation is not born from control, but from curiosity and courage. Like the ancient alchemists, she stirs the elements not knowing every secret of their nature, yet somehow summons transformation. The heart, not only the intellect, becomes her compass.

There is a story — of Thomas Edison, the great inventor. Though he could not always explain the scientific principles behind his discoveries, he experimented relentlessly, guided by intuition and persistence. He failed a thousand times before creating light from filament. His process was not a triumph of comprehension, but of relationship — the patient dialogue between idea and material, between question and failure. Brenda Laurel walks in the same lineage of spirit. Her “dowser’s touch,” her strange and playful gift for breaking software, is not destruction, but discovery. It is through breaking that systems reveal their weaknesses; through failure that hidden truths emerge.

What she calls “wonderful” is, in truth, the reconciliation of two forces: imperfection and purpose. The ancients taught that the divine often hides itself in paradox — that the healer may be wounded, that the fool may speak wisdom, and that the one who cannot build without breaking may be the truest architect of all. Laurel’s words echo this eternal lesson: that not knowing is not the end of learning, but the beginning of understanding. Her clumsiness is a form of insight — a reminder that in touching the delicate fabric of creation, she reveals its fragility and its strength alike.

Let us reflect, then, on this mystery of failure. In our time, where precision is praised and error despised, we forget that the path to mastery winds through the valleys of confusion. A sculptor must first break the stone before beauty emerges. A child must stumble before learning to walk. Even the mighty Internet, that vast web of connection, was born of countless mistakes and experiments. Brenda Laurel’s joy in her “breaking” is not recklessness — it is the sacred act of testing the boundaries of creation. She is, in spirit, both artist and explorer, revealing truths hidden beneath the surface of the known.

The lesson, then, is not merely for those who work with computers, but for all who dare to create. Do not fear your own awkwardness or the trembling of your hand before a new task. Do not wait until you fully understand before you begin. The world is moved forward not only by those who know, but by those who try, who touch, who listen to the unknown and allow themselves to err. In that error lies revelation. In that confusion lies creation.

So, to you who hear this teaching: embrace your wonderful clumsiness. It is not a flaw but a form of grace. Step into the work you do not yet understand, and let your mistakes be your teachers. Be as Brenda Laurel — the one who breaks to build, who fails to see more clearly, who laughs at the chaos and calls it beautiful. For the world does not need only perfection; it needs your humble courage — your willingness to stand before mystery and still reach out your hand.