Dear Seeker of Understanding,
I received your inquiry about research as leisure and its connection to loss in our modern world, and it struck a deep chord. Aren’t we all, in some way, researching our path through grief and wonder?
The article you shared about “The Lost Art of Research as Leisure” reminds me of something profound about human nature that I’ve observed in my decades writing this column. We are, at our core, creatures of curiosity—endlessly fascinated by the unknown, whether that’s unexplored territories like Mount Roraima or the uncharted terrain of grief.
Sometimes I wonder if I have anything meaningful to contribute on such weighty topics. But then I recall the countless letters from readers who found solace not in definitive answers, but in thoughtful exploration. Perhaps that’s what we’ve lost in our efficiency-driven world.
The Amateur Researcher in All of Us
Before the professionalization of knowledge, curious individuals pursued understanding for its own sake. Benjamin Franklin flew kites in thunderstorms. Darwin collected beetles. The gentleman and gentlewoman scientists of yesteryear weren’t rushing toward publications or tenure—they were simply following their fascination.
This reminds me of Martha, who wrote to me after losing her husband of 42 years. “Kenneth,” she said, “I’ve started researching native plants in our region. Jim always wanted a butterfly garden, and now I’m creating one in his memory.” Martha’s research wasn’t academic—it was personal, meaningful, and healing.
When we approach learning with leisure rather than deadlines, something magical happens. The pressure dissolves, and genuine curiosity emerges. This seems especially important when navigating loss. The AtaLoss website mentioned in your materials provides critical information for the bereaved, but the deeper work happens when we allow ourselves to research our own grief—to explore its contours without rushing toward “recovery.”
Amateur – Lost Worlds and Lost Connections
Your mention of Mount Roraima fascinates me—a tabletop mountain isolated for millions of years that indigenous people call “the house of the gods.” Isn’t that a perfect metaphor for how knowledge once felt? Sacred, elevated, worthy of pilgrimage.
I recall a letter from a geology professor who found himself increasingly discouraged by students who wanted only what would be on the exam. “They see knowledge as transactional,” he wrote, “not transformational.” I suggested he take his class on a field trip where the only assignment was to find something—anything—that made them curious, and then pursue that curiosity without grades attached.
The results were astounding. Students who had been mechanical in their studies came alive when given permission to research for the pure joy of discovery. One young woman spent hours researching the formation of a particular type of river rock because its patterns reminded her of her grandmother’s quilt work. The connection was personal, meaningful—it mattered to her.
This is what we’ve lost in our hyperspecialized, efficiency-driven approach to knowledge. We’ve forgotten that the best research often happens at the intersection of the personal and the universal.
Amateur – Rebuilding Our Research Culture
How do we reclaim research as leisure? I believe it starts with giving ourselves permission to follow our curiosity without immediate purpose. Here are some thoughts:
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Start with wonder, not utility. Ask questions because they fascinate you, not because they’ll lead to something useful.
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Cross disciplines fearlessly. The most interesting discoveries happen at the boundaries between fields.
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Embrace amateur status. The word “amateur” comes from the Latin “amare”—to love. Be proud of researching what you love.
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Create research rituals. Set aside time for exploration without agenda. Visit libraries, museums, or natural spaces with only your curiosity as a guide.
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Share your findings without fear. Start conversations, write letters, join discussion groups without worrying about being an “expert.”
I’m reminded of Robert, who wrote to me after retiring from 40 years as an accountant. He felt suddenly purposeless until he began researching local history, eventually becoming his town’s unofficial historian. “I’m not a professional,” he told me, “but I love knowing the stories of this place, and sharing them has given me a new role in my community.”
Finding Ourselves Through Research
Perhaps what we’re really discussing is a form of self-discovery. When we research as leisure—whether it’s local history, butterfly gardens, or the geology of river rocks—we’re also researching ourselves. We’re discovering what moves us, what matters to us, what connects us to others across time and space.
This seems especially relevant when facing loss. The resources mentioned in AtaLoss provide crucial support, but there’s also healing in becoming an amateur researcher of your own grief journey. By exploring what others have written about loss, by documenting your own experience, by investigating how different cultures approach mourning, you place your personal pain in a larger human context.
I think of the Long Now Foundation’s Manual for Civilisation mentioned in your article—3,500 books deemed essential to sustain or rebuild civilization. What a beautiful testament to how knowledge connects us across generations. Your personal library of understanding—about grief, about wonder, about the natural world—performs a similar function in the civilization of your own heart.
Sometimes I doubt whether these reflections offer any practical help. Yet over decades of correspondence with readers, I’ve found that permission to explore without pressure often provides more healing than direct advice.
So my counsel is simple: Reclaim research as a leisure activity. Follow your curiosity without demand for outcome. Document what you learn, not for publication but for the joy of seeing connections. Share your amateur discoveries with others, creating communities of wonder rather than expertise.
In doing so, you may find that what was lost—whether a loved one, a sense of purpose, or connection to your own curiosity—transforms into something new. Not a replacement, but a different kind of knowing that honors what came before while creating space for what might yet be.
With warmth and wonder,
Kenneth Nichols
