I used to want to be a lawyer, but I didn't want to have half my

Hear, O seekers of balance, the words of Max Walker, who once declared with wit and piercing imagery: “I used to want to be a lawyer, but I didn’t want to have half my brain sucked out.” At first, his words strike as jest, a playful dismissal of a noble profession. Yet beneath the laughter lies a profound observation about the demands of specialization, the dangers of narrowness, and the cost of surrendering one’s wholeness to a single craft. For in this metaphor of a brain divided, Walker points to the loss that can occur when one path consumes all the mind’s faculties, leaving little room for the richness of a full and balanced life.

The meaning of his statement is twofold. On one hand, he honors the discipline of the lawyer, who must master statutes, arguments, and logic with unyielding precision. But on the other hand, he mourns what might be sacrificed in that pursuit: the imagination, the creativity, the freedom to dream beyond rules and precedents. To “have half the brain sucked out” is to risk becoming so entangled in narrow thought that one forgets the wider horizons of life—the music of poetry, the wonder of nature, the spontaneity of play. Thus his words are both jest and warning: beware the profession that swallows too much of the self.

The ancients understood this peril well. The philosopher Plato spoke of the divided soul, where reason, spirit, and appetite must remain in harmony. If reason overwhelms, the soul becomes rigid; if appetite rules, it descends into chaos. In the same way, Walker’s quip suggests that to let the lawyer’s reason dominate all is to lose balance, to silence other parts of the human spirit. The fullness of humanity requires not only logic and discipline, but also imagination, wonder, and joy.

Consider the life of Cicero, the Roman statesman and lawyer, who rose to greatness in the courts. His mastery of argument and rhetoric was unmatched, and his speeches thundered through the Senate. Yet in his later years, even Cicero lamented that the constant demands of law and politics had left him weary, estranged from the quieter pursuits of philosophy and poetry that had once nourished him. His life reminds us that brilliance in one realm, if it consumes all else, can still leave the soul hungry.

Walker’s words also speak to the modern danger of over-specialization. In a world that prizes experts, many are tempted to become so focused on a single domain that they neglect the breadth of their humanity. The engineer may lose the poet within; the lawyer may lose the dreamer; the scholar may lose the childlike wonder of discovery. Walker, in jest, refused such narrowing. He chose instead to preserve the whole of his mind, to remain a man of many colors rather than one shade alone.

The lesson here is not to despise the lawyer, nor the scholar, nor any calling of depth. Rather, it is to guard against the loss of balance, to ensure that in pursuing excellence, we do not amputate parts of our own humanity. To be truly wise is to integrate—to bring logic and creativity, discipline and play, law and life into harmony. For wholeness is the highest calling of the human mind.

Therefore, O listener, take Walker’s jest as serious counsel. Whatever path you walk, do not allow it to consume you so fully that you lose the breadth of your gifts. If you are a lawyer, be also a poet; if you are a scholar, be also a lover of nature; if you are a craftsman, be also a dreamer. Keep your brain whole, your heart wide, your soul balanced. For the world does not need half-men or half-women—it needs beings alive in their fullness, radiant in all the dimensions of their humanity.

And so let this quip endure, as both humor and wisdom: “I didn’t want to have half my brain sucked out.” Laugh at it, yes, but also learn from it. For in its jest lies a call to preserve balance, to live fully, and to refuse any path that demands the sacrifice of your wholeness.