Super-Learning: A Grapefruit, a Pomelo, and a Path Back to Wonder

I want to tell you a story.

When my son was born, we lived for a while on the Hawaiian island of Molokai. It’s a place of stunning natural beauty—lush trails, hidden waterfalls, the kind of wildness and a tropical feeling that stays with you.

One afternoon, we hiked deep into the Halawa valley, along a forest path fringed with tropical green. Somewhere along that trail, we stumbled upon a grapefruit tree. We picked a few, sat in the dappled light, and ate them on the spot. A little farther along, I spotted pomelos hanging high in a tree—bright yellow orbs, way out of reach. Determined, I threw rocks until I managed to knock one down. No small feat, and yet somehow, it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. It was just part of the day’s adventure.

I didn’t think much more about it.

Fast forward ten years. We returned to Molokai as a family, retracing our steps on that same trail. And something strange happened. We got to a bend in the path, and I suddenly said, “I think there’s a grapefruit tree around here.” I looked to my left—and there it was. The same tree right where I’d remembered it. A little further along, the feeling came again. The pomelo tree. I remembered throwing rocks, aiming for the fruit dangling high above. And sure enough, there it was. Once again, I found myself launching rocks into the air. We gathered the pomelo and my daughter became the steward of it and carried it up the trail to eat it by the waterfall. 

Halawa Falls, Molokai

That experience reminded me of a book I read in university in the early ’80s called Super-Learning. The title alone had intrigued me—it sounded like a promise, like a secret shortcut to unlocking human potential. It had been sitting around our house, part of my dad’s collection of pop psychology and self-help books. He was always reading something new.

I don’t remember why I picked it up—maybe boredom, maybe a way to avoid writing an essay—but I do remember flipping through the pages and feeling like a door had opened. The book talked about learning through music, relaxation, suggestion, even altered states of consciousness. Looking back, some of it feels a little out there. But the questions it raised? They still matter.

How do we learn best? What helps our minds really absorb and connect with knowledge? 

What if learning isn’t just about our brains, but about our whole selves—body, mind, and place?

That moment on the trail made me wonder: how did I remember those trees so vividly? Was it just memory, or something deeper? Was it the embodied experience—the walking, the fruit, the landscape—that encoded it so clearly?

Maybe Super-Learning isn’t  just about faster memorization or improved recall. Maybe it is pointing to something more holistic: a kind of learning rooted in presence, in awareness, in being fully engaged with our environment and our senses.

Today, we might call that mindfulness. Or embodied cognition. Or place-based learning. Whatever we call it, I think the core idea is the same: that real learning happens when we’re fully there. When we’re not just absorbing facts, but participating in the world with curiosity and connection.

That old book didn’t have all the answers. But it planted a seed. And I’m still following the trail—asking questions, throwing metaphorical rocks at the fruit hanging just out of reach, and trying to care for learners and teachers as we navigate this changing world.

Because maybe the best kind of learning isn’t about speed or efficiency at all. Maybe it’s about remembering how to feel our way into understanding.