Walt Whitman’s lines from “Song of Myself” have always felt less like poetry and more like a quiet truth we’re all learning to live: “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” It’s a sentiment that transcends the page—it breathes in the lives of people who refuse to be simplified, categorized, or fully explained.
I think of those words often when I remember my father. He was, in his own gentle way, a living testament to that idea—not as theory, but as practice. He contained science and spirit, rigor and compassion, faith and doubt, all without apology. He held these tensions not as contradictions to be resolved, but as dimensions to be lived.
In a world that often asks us to choose—between reason and belief, specialization and curiosity, tradition and progress—his life suggested another way: embrace the multitudes. This isn’t just a philosophical stance; it’s a deeply human one. It’s the recognition that identity isn’t singular, and that transcendence often begins when we stop trying to fit ourselves into neat categories and instead allow what’s within us to coexist, even when it doesn’t easily align.
Many of us feel this tension today—juggling roles, values, and versions of ourselves that don’t always harmonize. We’re professionals and caregivers, skeptics and dreamers, rooted in tradition yet navigating a rapidly changing world. We contain multitudes, too. And sometimes, what we need isn’t more clarity, but more grace—the kind that lets us be inconsistent, evolving, and whole, all at once.
This is where Whitman’s vision meets our daily lives. It’s not about resolving every paradox, but about making peace with the fact that we are, each of us, a collection of stories, beliefs, and capabilities that may not always line up neatly. And that’s not a flaw—it’s a feature of being fully human.
The Living Poem: A Father’s Multitudes
Walt Whitman’s declaration—”I am large, I contain multitudes”—ceases to be mere poetry when you meet someone who actually lives it. My father was such a person, a walking embodiment of Whitman’s vision, though he’d probably chuckle at the comparison. He wasn’t a poet but a high school science teacher who somehow managed to hold entire universes within his modest classroom.
His multitudes weren’t abstract concepts but lived realities. While most teachers specialize, my father collected master’s degrees like some people collect stamps—Biology, Chemistry, Physics, Earth Science. Each discipline represented not just academic achievement but a different way of seeing the world. He didn’t see these as separate domains but as interconnected languages describing the same magnificent reality.
In his classroom, this multidimensional approach created something extraordinary. He might begin a lesson on photosynthesis by discussing the chemical processes, then shift to the physics of light absorption, then ponder the biological marvel of energy conversion, and finally reflect on the Earth’s systems that make it all possible. Students didn’t just learn facts; they learned how everything connects. His teaching became a practical demonstration of how specialized knowledge, when integrated, reveals deeper truths about our world.
This integrative thinking shaped his approach to what many see as the great divide: science and faith. As a traditional Catholic, he could have followed the path of those who see conflict between laboratory and chapel. Instead, he found harmony. He taught that the natural world revealed through science was simply another testament to creation’s complexity, not something to be feared or rejected. This perspective saved our family from the dark path of fundamentalism that traps so many in false choices between reason and belief.
His compassion formed another vital dimension of his multitudes. Kindness wasn’t something he performed but something he was—a fundamental orientation toward others that radiated through everything he did. I remember how he’d stay after school for hours helping struggling students, not because it was required, but because he genuinely believed in their potential. That kindness created ripples that eventually returned to him, and to our family, in unexpected ways.
Former students would stop him in grocery stores years later, not just to thank him for helping them pass chemistry, but for seeing something in them they hadn’t seen in themselves. One became a researcher who credits my father’s interdisciplinary approach with her innovative work in environmental science. Another became a teacher who models the same compassionate engagement with students.
What made his multitudes remarkable wasn’t their variety but their integration. He didn’t compartmentalize his scientific mind from his spiritual heart or his professional knowledge from his human kindness. They flowed together, each enriching the others, creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
This integration offers a powerful antidote to the fragmentation so many of us experience. In a world that often forces us to choose identities—scientist or believer, professional or compassionate human—my father demonstrated that we need not choose. We can contain multitudes without contradiction, holding apparent opposites in creative tension that generates new understanding.
His classroom became a microcosm of this philosophy. Students learned that asking questions about quantum physics didn’t preclude wondering about metaphysical questions. They discovered that rigorous thinking and compassionate action aren’t opposites but complementary aspects of a fully engaged life.
This approach to identity—as something expansive, inclusive, and integrated—feels particularly relevant today. We’re all asked to wear multiple hats, to navigate different roles and contexts. The temptation is to keep these separate, to create mental partitions between our professional, personal, and spiritual selves. My father’s example suggests a different path: toward integration, where each aspect of ourselves informs and enriches the others.
His multitudes weren’t always comfortable to contain. Holding competing perspectives requires tolerating uncertainty, living with questions rather than rushing to answers. I saw him struggle sometimes with the tensions between scientific discovery and religious tradition. But he never saw this struggle as failure—rather as evidence that he was engaging fully with the complexity of existence.
This embrace of complexity may be his greatest legacy. In an era of simplistic either-or thinking, he modeled both-and living. He showed that we can be rigorous and compassionate, scientific and spiritual, specialized and broad-minded. These aren’t contradictions to be resolved but complementary aspects of our humanity to be embraced.
The practical implications of this approach extend beyond personal identity to how we educate, how we work, and how we engage with others’ multitudes. It suggests that the most innovative thinking often happens at the intersections—between disciplines, perspectives, and ways of being. It argues for educational approaches that connect rather than compartmentalize, that show how knowledge forms an interconnected web rather than isolated silos.
Perhaps most importantly, my father’s example demonstrates that containing multitudes isn’t about being perfect at everything but about being open to everything. It’s a stance of curiosity rather than expertise, of engagement rather than mastery. He didn’t know everything about every subject, but he remained genuinely interested in how everything connected.
This quality of integrated being—where knowledge, compassion, faith, and reason inform one another—creates a particular kind of presence. People felt it in his classroom, in our home, in every interaction. It was the presence of someone fully engaged with life’s complexity without being overwhelmed by it, someone who could hold multiple truths simultaneously without needing to simplify them.
In our current moment, when so many forces push us toward fragmentation and polarization, this ability to contain multitudes feels not just valuable but essential. It offers a way through the false choices that dominate our discourse—between science and spirit, progress and tradition, individuality and connection.
My father’s life suggests that our contradictions don’t need to be resolved but embraced as evidence of our capacity for complexity. The tensions between different aspects of ourselves aren’t problems to be solved but creative spaces where new understanding can emerge. This doesn’t mean abandoning critical thinking or adopting lazy relativism, but rather developing the capacity to hold multiple perspectives in mind simultaneously, to see how apparent opposites might inform and enrich each other.
This approach to identity and knowing has deeply influenced how I move through the world. I find myself less interested in choosing sides and more curious about finding connections. I’m more comfortable with uncertainty, more open to perspectives that challenge my own, more willing to acknowledge that I contain contradictions—and that this isn’t a flaw but a feature of being fully human.
Whitman’s words continue to resonate because they speak to a fundamental human experience—the sense that we are many things simultaneously, that our identities are not singular but plural. My father embodied this truth not as philosophical concept but as daily practice. His classroom, his home, his very way of being demonstrated that containing multitudes isn’t about being inconsistent but about being large enough to embrace life’s beautiful complexity.
Conflict and Harmony: The Dialectical Unity of Values
My father’s classroom was a laboratory of reconciliation. While other educators might have seen tension between test tubes and theological texts, he found a natural symbiosis. His approach to teaching science never demanded that students choose between empirical evidence and spiritual belief—instead, he demonstrated how both could coexist in a thoughtful mind.
I remember visiting his classroom after school one day, finding him at his desk with both a biology textbook and a well-worn Bible open before him. “They’re asking different questions,” he explained when he noticed my curious glance. “Science asks how things work, faith asks why we’re here. We need both sets of answers.” This perspective shaped his teaching methodology profoundly. When covering evolutionary biology, he would acknowledge the theological concerns some students might have while emphasizing the scientific evidence. He taught the theory of evolution not as a challenge to faith but as a magnificent demonstration of creation’s complexity.
His students came from diverse backgrounds—some from deeply religious families, others from secular households. Dad never pretended the conflicts didn’t exist. During a unit on geological time, one student expressed concern about the apparent contradiction between scientific dating methods and biblical chronology. Instead of dismissing either perspective, Dad designed a special lesson on how different disciplines measure time for different purposes. “The Bible isn’t trying to be a science textbook,” he would say, “and science can’t tell us about ultimate meaning. They’re different languages describing the same reality.”
This reconciliation extended beyond the science-religion dialogue. In an era when educational trends often pushed specialization, Dad maintained that true understanding required crossing disciplinary boundaries. His physics lessons would reference historical context, his chemistry demonstrations included philosophical implications, and his biology lectures often touched on ethical considerations. Students didn’t just learn scientific facts—they learned how scientific knowledge connected to the broader human experience.
What made this approach particularly effective was Dad’s genuine curiosity about everything. His multidisciplinary master’s degrees weren’t just academic achievements—they represented his fundamental belief that knowledge forms an interconnected whole. He would often say, “The universe doesn’t come divided into subjects. We create those divisions to make study easier, but we must remember they’re artificial boundaries.”
This integrated worldview had practical consequences in our family life. While some families in our community avoided certain topics to prevent conflict, we discussed everything openly. The Big Bang theory could be mentioned alongside theological concepts of creation without tension. Genetic research and ethical considerations were discussed as complementary rather than contradictory. This created an environment where questioning was encouraged rather than feared, where uncertainty was acknowledged as part of the learning process.
The impact of this values integration became particularly evident during my teenage years, when many of my peers experienced crises of faith or rejection of science. Because I had grown up seeing these domains as complementary rather than conflicting, I avoided either extreme—I didn’t feel forced to choose between scientific rationality and spiritual meaning. This balanced perspective has served me well throughout life, providing a framework for navigating other apparent contradictions and complexities.
Dad’s approach demonstrated that harmony doesn’t require uniformity. Different perspectives, even seemingly contradictory ones, can coexist when we recognize that each offers partial truths. His classroom became a microcosm of this philosophy—a space where students could hold multiple perspectives simultaneously, where questions were valued more than definitive answers, and where the pursuit of understanding took precedence over ideological purity.
This values integration wasn’t always easy. Dad occasionally faced criticism from both sides—some scientific colleagues thought he gave too much credence to religious perspectives, while some religious community members questioned his commitment to traditional teachings. Yet he remained steadfast in his conviction that truth is multidimensional. “If something is true,” he would say, “it will eventually harmonize with other truths. We just need to be patient and humble enough to see the connections.”
The legacy of this approach extends beyond our family. Former students often mention how Dad’s teaching helped them navigate their own values conflicts—scientists who maintained spiritual lives, religious leaders who appreciated scientific insights, professionals in various fields who learned to integrate multiple perspectives. His greatest lesson wasn’t any specific scientific fact but the demonstration that we can contain multitudes without internal conflict, that apparent contradictions often reveal our limited understanding rather than fundamental incompatibilities.
In a world increasingly polarized around various issues, this model of values integration offers a hopeful alternative. It suggests that we don’t have to choose sides in every debate, that we can acknowledge complexity and nuance, that different ways of knowing can enrich rather than threaten each other. My father’s life demonstrated that embracing multiple perspectives isn’t a sign of confusion but of wisdom—a recognition that reality is too complex for any single framework to capture completely.
The Educator’s Transcendence: Breaking Disciplinary Boundaries
My father’s classroom was never just a room with four walls and a chalkboard. It was a living laboratory where the boundaries between biology, chemistry, physics, and earth science dissolved into something more meaningful—a holistic understanding of how the world actually works. He didn’t see himself as a biology teacher or a chemistry instructor but as someone guiding young minds through the interconnected wonder of natural phenomena.
His approach to teaching photosynthesis wasn’t confined to textbook diagrams of chloroplasts. He’d begin with the physics of light absorption, shift to the chemistry of energy conversion, consider the biological implications for plant growth, and then examine how this process shaped Earth’s atmosphere over geological time. Students who thought they were signing up for straightforward biology found themselves on an intellectual journey that refused to stay within disciplinary lines.
This interdisciplinary method created unexpected moments of clarity. I remember one student who had been struggling with chemical equations suddenly grasping them when my father demonstrated how those same equations governed the metabolic processes they’d been studying in biology. The abstract became concrete, the isolated became connected, and learning transformed from memorization to genuine understanding.
What made this approach particularly effective was how it mirrored the way problems present themselves in actual life. Nature doesn’t organize itself into separate subjects, and neither do the challenges we face as individuals and societies. Climate change isn’t just a science issue—it involves economics, ethics, politics, and culture. Medical breakthroughs don’t emerge from isolated silos of knowledge but from the cross-pollination of ideas across fields.
My father’s students often reported that this approach changed how they thought about their own education. Those who went into medicine understood that treating patients required more than biological knowledge—it demanded psychological insight, ethical consideration, and cultural sensitivity. Those who pursued engineering recognized that technical solutions must account for environmental impact, social equity, and economic feasibility.
The modern educational landscape often pushes toward specialization, and there’s value in developing deep expertise. But my father demonstrated that breadth need not come at the expense of depth. His mastery of multiple scientific disciplines allowed him to see connections that specialists might miss, to explain concepts from multiple angles, and to help students find their own points of entry into complex material.
This approach required extraordinary preparation. He’d spend evenings connecting concepts across subjects, designing lessons that showed how principles in physics explained biological phenomena, how chemical processes shaped geological formations. The extra work reflected his belief that students deserved to see knowledge as an integrated whole rather than a collection of disconnected facts.
Some colleagues viewed his approach as unconventional, perhaps even inefficient. Why not just teach the curriculum as written? But the results spoke for themselves. His students consistently demonstrated not just better retention of facts but superior ability to apply concepts in novel contexts. They developed what educational researchers now call “integrative thinking”—the capacity to synthesize information from multiple sources and perspectives.
For contemporary educators looking to incorporate this approach, the methodology doesn’t require teaching multiple subjects simultaneously. It can begin with small connections: showing how mathematical concepts appear in musical rhythms, how historical events influenced artistic movements, how psychological principles affect economic behavior. The goal isn’t to become an expert in everything but to help students see the patterns that connect different domains of knowledge.
This educational philosophy extends beyond academic content to the development of character and values. My father’s classroom was a space where scientific inquiry coexisted with ethical consideration, where analytical thinking partnered with compassionate understanding. Students learned that intelligence without empathy, or expertise without wisdom, created incomplete solutions to human problems.
In an era of increasing specialization, his approach offers a counterbalance—a reminder that some of the most important insights occur at the intersections between fields. The digital revolution emerged from connecting computer science with design, psychology, and business. Environmental solutions require blending scientific knowledge with policy expertise, economic understanding, and cultural awareness.
Educational institutions are beginning to recognize the value of this integrated approach through interdisciplinary programs, project-based learning, and collaborative teaching models. Yet the most significant shifts often happen at the classroom level, through educators who understand that their primary task isn’t just transmitting information but helping students see connections and patterns.
The practical implementation involves looking for natural connections rather than forcing artificial integrations. It means being willing to say “I don’t know” when students ask questions that cross disciplinary boundaries, then modeling how to find answers through research and collaboration. It requires creating classroom environments where curiosity leads the learning process rather than predetermined curricula.
My father’s legacy as an educator wasn’t measured in test scores or academic awards, though those were impressive. It was visible in former students who became doctors who treated the whole person rather than just the disease, engineers who considered the social impact of their designs, researchers who collaborated across disciplinary lines. They carried forward the understanding that knowledge becomes most powerful when we break down the barriers we’ve built around it.
For those involved in education today, whether as teachers, administrators, or parents, the invitation remains: to help learners see that the world doesn’t come in separate subjects, that the most interesting questions often live between disciplines, and that understanding requires both deep knowledge and broad connections. This approach doesn’t diminish specialization but situates it within a larger context of integrated understanding.
The classroom becomes not just a place of learning but a microcosm of how we might approach complex problems beyond school walls—with humility about what we don’t know, curiosity about connections we haven’t yet made, and courage to cross boundaries in pursuit of deeper understanding.
The Modern Revelation of Multifaceted Identity: From Personal to Universal
My father’s life was a quiet testament to an idea many of us grapple with but rarely articulate: that we are not one thing, but many. He never felt the need to choose between being a scientist and a man of faith, between rigor and compassion, between depth in one field and curiosity about many. In a world that often demands we simplify ourselves into easily digestible labels, he remained gloriously, productively complex. His example offers more than just a touching family memory; it provides a practical framework for navigating the modern crisis of identity so many of us face.
We live in an age of hyper-specialization and personal branding, where there is immense pressure to craft a coherent, singular narrative about who we are. Professional platforms ask us to define ourselves in a handful of keywords, and social interactions often begin with the reductive question, “So, what do you do?” This constant compression of self can create a deep sense of internal conflict when our experiences, interests, and beliefs don’t align neatly. We feel we must hide our contradictions or apologize for them. My father’s embrace of his own multitudes presents a powerful alternative: not as a lofty philosophical ideal, but as a lived, breathing practice. The transcendence he found wasn’t about escaping the self, but about fully inhabiting its entire, sometimes messy, spectrum.
The first piece of practical wisdom we can extract is the intentional cultivation of what I’ve come to call “integrative thinking.” This isn’t about merely having multiple hobbies or side gigs; it’s a deeper cognitive approach to life. For my father, his mastery of biology, chemistry, physics, and earth science wasn’t a collection of separate files in his mind. They were interconnected chapters of a single story—the story of understanding the natural world. This allowed him to see patterns and connections that a strict specialist might miss. We can apply this by actively seeking the intersections between our own seemingly disparate roles. How does being a parent inform your leadership at work? How does your artistic hobby influence your approach to problem-solving? Reframing these roles not as separate compartments but as facets of a whole person reduces the friction of switching between them and allows for a richer, more creative cross-pollination of ideas.
A more challenging but essential practice is making peace with internal contradiction. We are often taught that holding two opposing ideas is a sign of intellectual weakness or confusion. My father demonstrated that it can be a source of strength and depth. His scientific mind, which demanded evidence and logical consistency, coexisted with a spiritual faith built on mystery and belief. He didn’t see this as a problem to be solved but as a tension to be managed, a dialogue to be maintained. For those of us wrestling with our own conflicting beliefs or values—perhaps between ambition and contentment, tradition and progress, community and individuality—the goal isn’t to eliminate one side but to find a sustainable balance. This involves acknowledging the validity of each perspective and understanding that your identity is large enough to hold them both. The discomfort of contradiction is not a sign that you’re doing it wrong; it’s a sign that you’re engaging with the full complexity of your experience.
To move from theory to practice, here are a few simple tools for self-reflection. First, try the “Identity Map.” Draw a circle in the center of a page with your name in it. Radiating outward, draw lines to other circles labeled with your various roles and core values (e.g., professional, parent, friend, artist, skeptic, believer, caregiver). Don’t judge or rank them; just get them all down. Then, spend time drawing connections between them. Where do they support each other? Where is there tension? The goal isn’t to resolve the tension but to see the entire ecosystem of your self. Second, practice narrative journaling. Instead of writing a linear diary, write short paragraphs from the perspective of these different “selves.” What does your ambitious self want today? What is your peaceful self concerned about? Giving voice to these different parts helps you understand their motivations and reduces the internal conflict that arises when one part feels silenced.
Ultimately, the value of this embrace of multidimensional identity extends far beyond personal comfort. In a increasingly polarized world, the ability to hold complexity within ourselves is the very skill needed to foster understanding between others. If we cannot tolerate contradiction within, we will have no patience for it in our communities. My father’s gentle compassion was a direct outgrowth of his own internal acceptance; because he wasn’t at war with himself, he had no need to wage war on the beliefs of others. He could engage with fundamentalist views not with anger, but with a calm assurance that came from knowing his own truth was complex and sturdy.
His life argues that the goal of personal growth is not to achieve a perfectly consistent and finished self, but to become a more spacious and hospitable self—one that can welcome new ideas, honor old values, and contain all the paradoxes that make a human life truly rich. This is the modern application of that old poetic truth. We contain multitudes. The work is not to deny them, but to build a life, and a world, spacious enough for them all to belong.
Embracing the Multitudes Within
Walt Whitman’s timeless assertion—“I am large, I contain multitudes”—resonates not as poetic abstraction but as practical wisdom for navigating modern life. My father’s embodiment of this philosophy wasn’t merely an intellectual exercise; it was a lived truth that shaped his teaching, his faith, and his relationships. In our increasingly fragmented world, where identities often feel compartmentalized and contradictory, his example offers a blueprint for integration rather than division.
The reconciliation of science and spirituality in his life demonstrates that apparent opposites can coexist harmoniously. He never saw his deep knowledge of biology or physics as threats to his religious convictions—instead, they enriched his understanding of creation itself. This approach echoes Whitman’s celebration of contradiction as a natural human state. We too can embrace our own multitudes: the professional and the personal, the traditional and the progressive, the logical and the intuitive. These aren’t conflicts to resolve but dimensions to integrate.
Three practices can help cultivate this integrative mindset:
First, practice intellectual humility. Recognize that no single perspective holds monopoly on truth. My father’s mastery across multiple scientific disciplines taught him that each field offers valuable but partial insights. Similarly, our various identities and beliefs each reveal different aspects of reality without capturing it entirely.
Second, actively seek out perspectives that challenge your assumptions. The fundamentalists my father avoided weren’t wrong because of their faith but because of their refusal to engage with contradictory evidence. Growth occurs at the edges of our understanding, where familiar ideas meet unfamiliar ones.
Third, allow kindness to be your compass through complexity. When faced with conflicting values or identities, ask which path expands compassion rather than contracts it. My father’s kindness created ripples that touched students, colleagues, and family—transcending the boundaries of any single role he occupied.
These approaches aren’t about eliminating tension but about making it productive. The friction between different aspects of ourselves can generate light rather than heat—illuminating new possibilities for being whole amid our contradictions.
Whitman’s vision of containing multitudes ultimately points toward a more expansive humanity—one that embraces complexity without demanding consistency. My father’s life proved this vision practicable: a man could be both scientist and believer, teacher and student, traditionalist and innovator. His example suggests that our contradictions don’t weaken us but deepen us, creating richer internal landscapes from which to engage the world.
As we move forward in our own journeys of identity and meaning, we might carry forward this generous view of human complexity. The future belongs not to those who choose sides but to those who contain multitudes—who recognize that wisdom often lives in the and rather than the or. In embracing our full humanity, with all its beautiful contradictions, we don’t just solve personal conflicts—we contribute to a more compassionate and integrated world.
