Star Child Speaks: Stop Learning – Be The Field
by Zen Gardner
You may or may not have heard of this amazing child “genius”, which he himself admits is a misnomer. Being diagnosed as autistic he asserts he was just allowed to think rather than taught to learn. The rest just followed.
That’s as profound as it comes.
Unfortunately he’s been “on the media circuit” somewhat so it’s diluting the reality of what he’s saying a bit, which they want of course, and no doubt has handlers by now. But just listen to the message here and how many veils of bullshit he pierces in so little time. And with such enthusiasm! “Spirit in you.” Absolutely thrilling!
They’re here, folks! Help has been arriving since time immemorial, and the PTBs know it. And despite their vaccines, drugs, chemtrails, gmo’s and whatnot claptrap, the uprising of conscious awareness cannot be suppressed, at any age, at any level.
This is an amazing account by Jake’s mom about his “break out” incident that woke his parents up as to what they had given birth to and what he was truly experiencing. It moved me to tears to realize such beauty exists on our planet with the response of the audience you’ll read about below.
We are all hungry for the same thing.
One in a Million: An Inspirational Story
Nature made him a genius. His mother brought out his humanity. Meet 14-year-old Jacob Barnett.
I shushed him, sure the people around us were going to give me the stink eye, hissing at me to get my kid out of this place we clearly had no business inhabiting. Sure enough, the people around us were starting to notice, and to whisper, but it soon became clear that they weren’t so much annoyed as they were amused and a bit incredulous.
“Is that little kid reading?” I heard someone say. “Did he just say ‘perihelial’?”
Then the lecturer introduced a history of scientific observations about the possibility of water on Mars, starting with the nineteenth-century Italian astronomer Giovanni Schiaparelli, who believed he saw canals on the planet’s surface. Hearing this, Jake started to laugh. In my anxiety, I thought he was going to lose it, but when I looked at him, I could see he was genuinely cracking up, like the idea of canals on Mars was the greatest knee-slapper he’d ever heard. Again, I quieted him down. But I could see the ripple spread through the crowd as people started craning their necks to see what was going on.
Then the lecturer asked a question of the audience: “Our moon is round. Why do you think the moons around Mars are elliptical, shaped like potatoes?”
Nobody in the crowd answered, probably because no one had the slightest idea. I certainly didn’t. Then Jake’s hand shot up. “Excuse me, but could you please tell me the size of these moons?” This was more conversation than I’d seen from Jake in his entire life, but then again, I’d never tried to talk to him about Mars’s moons. The lecturer, visibly surprised, answered him. To the astonishment of everyone, including me, Jake responded, “Then the moons around Mars are small, so they have a small mass. The gravitational effects of the moons are not large enough to pull them into complete spheres.”
He was right.
The room went silent, all eyes on my son. Then everyone went nuts, and for a few minutes the lecture came to a halt.
The professor eventually regained control of the room, but my mind was somewhere else. I was completely freaked out. My three-year-old had answered a question that had been too difficult for anyone else in the room, including the Butler students and all of the adults present. I felt too dizzy to move.
At the end of the lecture, people crowded around us. “Get his autograph. You’ll want that someday!” someone said. Another person actually pushed forward a piece of paper for Jake to sign, which I pushed right back. Usually overwhelmed by crowds, Jake took everything happening around him in stride, staring contentedly at the last PowerPoint slide, a close-up satellite shot of an enormous mountain on the surface of Mars.
I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. But when it came time for everyone to make their way upstairs to look through the telescope, an astonishing thing happened. The crowd fell back to let Jake go first. The entire auditorium had wordlessly united behind the same goal: Let’s get this kid upstairs to see Mars! I know it sounds crazy, but there was a reverence in the air. Jake and I went up the stairs, buoyed by the energy and hopefulness and goodwill of the group. I felt almost as if they were carrying us.
As we drove home that night, Jake couldn’t stop chattering about space. I could finally understand what he was saying, but all it did was freak me out even more. How did this child know the comparative densities and relative speeds of the planets?
After I tucked Jake in, I called my friend Alison. Alison’s son Jack was also autistic and the same age as Jake, and we had become dear friends. I told her everything that had happened during our evening at the planetarium. Reliving it raised goose bumps on my arms.
“What am I supposed to do with this child?” I asked her. “Should I be doing something more, something different? Seriously, should I take him to NASA or something?”
I have thought about that moment again and again in the years since. Like the decision to pull him out of preschool, it was a turning point. We could have gone down a very different road, one I clearly see now would have been wrong for us. I am so grateful to Alison for her good sense. “You do exactly what you’re doing right now,” she told me. “You play with him, and you let him be a little boy.” More
Pretty cool. Not much to add. We’re in very inspiring times, despite the flack attack of BS we’re watching in the world.
Hang in there.