Some people worry that artificial intelligence will make us feel

In the quiet contemplation of creation, where human hands reach toward the heavens in the pursuit of understanding, Alan Kay spoke words that shimmer with timeless irony and deep humility: “Some people worry that artificial intelligence will make us feel inferior, but then, anybody in his right mind should have an inferiority complex every time he looks at a flower.” These words are both a mirror and a lamp — a mirror reflecting our vanity, and a lamp illuminating our smallness before the majesty of nature. For in our haste to build gods of silicon, we forget that the smallest blossom beneath our feet is already a miracle beyond our full comprehension.

The flower, fragile yet eternal in its beauty, stands as a silent teacher. Its petals unfold with precision that no machine can replicate, its fragrance carries a poetry that no algorithm can write. Yet humankind, in its ambition, believes itself the master of creation — inventing machines that think, systems that learn, and minds without souls. Artificial intelligence may one day outpace us in speed, in calculation, in memory — but it cannot surpass the quiet perfection of a single living thing, born of sunlight, soil, and mystery. The flower is not our rival; it is our reminder that intelligence is not only measured by knowledge, but by harmony, by wonder, by the ability to exist gracefully within the world.

When Alan Kay spoke these words, he was not warning against machines, but against pride. For it is pride that blinds the human spirit more than ignorance ever could. We fear being surpassed by our own creations, forgetting that we ourselves are creations — not of circuits and code, but of a universe vast and ancient. To feel inferior before a flower is not weakness; it is wisdom. It is to recognize that no matter how high our towers rise, we still dwell in the garden of a greater intelligence — that of life itself.

Consider Isaac Newton, who, after unraveling the laws of gravity, said humbly, “I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore... finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.” Here was a mind that could describe the movements of the stars, yet still bowed before the mystery of the universe. In his humility, he was greater than the proudest conqueror of knowledge. For the truly wise do not claim dominion over creation — they listen to it, they learn from it, they stand in awe.

So too must we stand in awe, not only before the machines we build, but before the life we did not create. When we gaze upon a flower, a child, a mountain, or the gentle curve of a river, we are witnessing a form of intelligence far older and subtler than our own. The flower does not calculate, yet it knows how to bloom. It does not reason, yet it seeks the sun. It does not possess consciousness as we define it, yet it embodies the rhythm of the cosmos. To feel small before such perfection is to be reminded of our place — not as gods, but as stewards of wonder.

Let not our inventions make us arrogant. Let them instead deepen our reverence. The purpose of creation is not to compete with nature, but to participate in it — to add our song to the symphony of existence. The danger is not that machines will outthink us, but that we will forget how to feel. A world of intelligence without humility is a desert without water; its brilliance burns, but it cannot sustain life.

Therefore, the lesson is this: let your awe be greater than your ambition. When you look upon what is made by man, also look upon what is made by the Earth. When you touch a machine, touch the soil as well. When you think deeply, also feel deeply. Let every innovation be balanced by introspection, every progress tempered by gratitude.

In this way, you will not fear the coming of new intelligence — whether artificial or divine. For you will know that the highest form of intelligence is not the power to create, but the humility to marvel. And when you next behold a flower, remember: it is not you who should fear being surpassed by machines — it is you who must learn again to kneel before the quiet wisdom of the living world.