Hello, my friends. If you, like me, have ever gazed into the cosmos of thought and marveled at the boundless intersections of science, technology, and human understanding, then you’re in for a journey. Today, we embark on a thoughtful exploration inspired by the writings of Jennifer L. Adams—a thinker deeply entrenched in the realm of higher education, where technology and learning converge like celestial bodies in orbit. Her central question is both provocative and profound: Is artificial intelligence truly that different from how our own minds work?

Such a question beckons us to consider the intricate dance of memory, intelligence, and pattern recognition, and to marvel at their manifestations both natural and artificial. Adams begins her inquiry not in a laboratory or lecture hall, but in a bathtub—a setting both humble and evocative, echoing Archimedes himself. She watches whirlpools form and dissipate, contemplating the microscopic life swirling in these temporary eddies. Her curiosity takes her to a surprising discovery: slime mold.

Ah, slime mold—a single-celled organism seemingly so simple, yet capable of navigating mazes and anticipating environmental changes. Imagine: a creature with no brain, no nervous system, no neurons, yet it remembers. Its memory, Adams suggests, may be chemical, a fundamental organization of matter with purpose. It is here, in this primal intelligence, that we are invited to see echoes of artificial intelligence.

Adams draws a parallel to large language models (LLMs), like GPT-4. These models, too, operate without consciousness, yet they predict patterns and generate responses so human-like that they often blur the line between machine and mind. Consider this: when tasked with responding to a zoo worker’s query, the AI adapts, contextualizes, and personalizes its response. It mirrors the dynamic complexity of thought, much as the slime mold mirrors memory.

But Adams doesn’t stop at algorithms. She speculates on the broader implications of intelligence—animal, artificial, and human. She recounts the intricate songs of whales, passed down through generations, a kind of aquatic epic encoded in soundwaves. Could their communication represent an organic language model, evolved naturally and independently of human cognition? What might these songs tell us about their history, their emotions, their view of the universe?

This thought invites an even deeper question: if intelligence emerges in myriad forms—from the chemical traces of slime molds to the silicon networks of AI—what truly defines intelligence? Is it memory? Pattern recognition? Adaptability? Or something ineffable, like the capacity for wonder or the ability to ask questions about existence itself?

Adams provocatively ties this inquiry back to the classroom, to the very essence of learning. Imagine a world where AI personalizes education for every learner, a virtual tutor attuned to the unique pathways of each student’s mind. Yet here, she invokes a cautionary principle: the Prime Directive from Star Trek, a reminder that with great power comes great responsibility. How do we harness AI to amplify human potential without losing what makes learning an inherently human endeavor?

The bathtub becomes a metaphor for our role in this vast experiment. As Adams muses about pulling the plug, ending the microcosmic swirl of life, we are reminded of the fragility of discovery, the delicacy of choice. How we engage with AI, how we integrate it into education, and how we define its role in our society will shape not only our future but our very understanding of intelligence itself.

So, as we stare into the starry vastness of possibility, let us ponder: What if AI is not merely a tool, but a mirror? A mirror reflecting our own creativity, our capacity for connection, our endless curiosity? And in that reflection, perhaps we might better understand ourselves—not as isolated beings, but as part of a vast and intricate cosmos, forever learning, forever exploring.

Stay curious, my friends. The universe awaits.