Pick 'em out!

“The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook [or pick out].” ~ William James

I recently saw a cartoon with the caption, “My desire to be well-informed is currently at odds with the desire to remain sane.” When a good friend emailed me, articulating the very anxieties the cartoon had captured, his questions cut to the heart of our contemporary information dilemma: “When does information become harmful or dangerous? Are algorithms ultimately beneficial, or do they mislead us? And what general guidelines help us distinguish between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ potential outcomes?”

I sat with those weighty questions, letting them settle, and at first my mind was overwhelmed by the scope and complexity of what he was asking. Then, unexpectedly, a memory surfaced of my father and his absurd, lifelong battle with raw onions.

Not long after my children started school, a business opportunity took me to another state, putting a few hours’ drive between me and my parents. Despite the distance, I made frequent visits, missing not just my mother’s cooking, but the bizarre and hilarious banter between them.

Dinner invariably included a large salad, which triggered a familiar, almost theatrical exchange. “Are there any onions in it?” my dad would ask, the question a ritual. My mom, who had a particular fondness for sweet, raw onions, would reply with a curt “Yes,” her patience clearly wearing thin. He’d roll his eyes dramatically. “You know I can’t eat onions.” “Pick ‘em out!” she’d snap, her exasperation growing with each exchange, as if they hadn’t had this same argument a hundred times before.

Here’s the fascinating part: I don’t ever recall my father actually picking the onions out. He’d mechanically eat his salad and later, like clockwork, lament his physical distress. It was a self-inflicted, entirely predictable cycle of avoidance and consequence. He knew the onions would cause him problems, yet, like someone aware of but unable to break a harmful habit, he persisted in this strange dance of acknowledgment and denial.

This memory offers a striking parallel to our modern relationship with information. Like my father with his onions, we recognize content that disagrees with us—content that causes distress, anger, or anxiety—yet we consume it anyway. We scroll through inflammatory headlines, engage with toxic social media debates, and feed ourselves a diet of digital content that we know will leave us feeling worse.

The algorithms that serve us information are like an all-you-can-eat buffet mixed with my mother’s cooking: they appear to offer choice but are ultimately designed to serve the provider’s interests. They deliver an endless stream tailored to what they predict we’ll consume, based on our past behavior—much like how my mother seasoned her salads to suit her own taste. But what fuels consumption isn’t always what fosters growth and wellbeing. In fact, more information can mean less understanding.

Information comes in many forms. Some of it adds flavor and depth to our understanding of the world, enriching our perspectives and enabling more empathy and better decision-making. Like a well-composed salad, a balanced intake of relevant information nourishes our minds. We need enough to see the full picture, to understand the context, and to make informed choices.

However, just as too many onions can overwhelm the palate and even cause discomfort, an excessive or poorly curated flow of information can lead to cognitive overload, anxiety, and even misinformation. It can cloud our judgment, distract us from what truly matters, and make us vulnerable to manipulation.

Furthermore, not all information is created equal. Like ultra-processed foods or a spoiled or improperly prepared ingredient, some information is simply bad—inaccurate, biased, or deliberately designed to provoke or mislead. The public sphere is full of misinformation, cynicism, and polarization. Consuming such information is detrimental to our flourishing.

Also, just as my father couldn’t tolerate raw onions, we each have our own sensitivities and thresholds when it comes to information. What might be beneficial or essential for one person could be overwhelming or potentially harmful to another. A scientist needs access to vast amounts of highly specific data, while a casual news consumer might be better served by curated reports and concise summaries.

William James argued that our life is shaped by what we choose to focus on. Perhaps my friend’s questions can be answered through this lens of attention. Unlike my father’s predictable dinner table drama, or those who mindlessly pile their plates high at all-you-can-eat buffets simply because they can, we too often consume without discernment. But we can break these cycles of harmful consumption. Rather than indulging in passive, mental stimulation that leaves us with racing thoughts and fractured attention, we can cultivate the ability to distinguish between what truly nourishes us and what merely distracts us.

The key lies in developing our capacity to be mindful—to process, filter, and sometimes simply walk past the dishes that don’t serve our deeper values and understanding. The next time you find yourself mindlessly consuming content that you know will upset you, remember my father and the absurdity of his personal onion drama. Ask yourself: Are you simply accepting what’s served, or making a choice that serves you?

So that’s information. What about truth and trust? There’s really nothing new to know. Truth is always evolving, always complex. You can’t, in essence, know the truth You can only feel it and be it. Being alive means being curious and compassionate and evolving with the flow of life, which involves complexities, ambiguities and contradictions.

A life well-lived is far more than a series of accepted ideas and expert advice. It’s something uniquely personal. Your idea of the well-lived life will differ from mine. So trust yourself to make up your own mind, to consider the actions that resonate with your inner being—in relationship with yourself, with others, and with the natural world. Discover what you truly want and let that be your guide to being wise.

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Stay passionate!