Hermann of Carinthia

Hello again, friend.

Last time, I told you about Gerard of Cremona---the man who spent his life in Toledo, translating eighty-seven works from Arabic into Latin. Patient, invisible work. Building bridges between worlds, one careful word at a time.

Today, I want to tell you about someone who wanted more than translations.

His name was Hermann of Carinthia, and he was Gerard's contemporary. But Hermann didn't just want to read what Islamic scholars had written about the stars. He wanted to stand beside them at night, looking through their instruments, learning their methods. He wanted to practice astronomy the way they practiced it.

There's a difference, you see, between translating a text about the heavens and actually observing them with someone who knows their patterns intimately.

Hermann understood that some knowledge can't be carried by words alone.

Let me show you what I mean.

I remember watching Hermann one night at an observatory somewhere in the Islamic world. I won't tell you exactly where---he traveled to several places in his quest to learn. But this night stays with me.

He was standing beside an Arab astronomer. Not reading a manuscript about astronomical instruments. Using one. His hands on an astrolabe, adjusting it carefully as the astronomer showed him how to sight a particular star.

The astronomer spoke in Arabic, pointing upward, tracing patterns Hermann was just beginning to recognize. Hermann asked questions---halting at first, then more confident as his Arabic improved. The astronomer corrected his angle, showed him again.

This is what Hermann had traveled so far to find. Not a library. Not scrolls to copy. But this: two men from different worlds, looking at the same sky, one teaching the other not just what the stars were called, but how to observe them, how to calculate their positions, how to use their movements to measure time and predict celestial events.

You could translate a treatise on the astrolabe. Gerard would have done it beautifully, carefully preserving every technical term. But reading about an astrolabe and holding one in your hands while someone who's used it for decades shows you its secrets---those are different kinds of knowledge.

Hermann understood this. He wasn't content with texts. He wanted method. Practice. The living transmission of technique from master to student.

So he put himself in a position of vulnerability, in lands where his people and theirs were often at war. He made himself a student. He learned not just with his mind, but with his hands.

And when he finally returned to Europe, he brought back something Gerard never could: the memory of how it felt to do astronomy the way the Islamic world did it.

Not just the knowledge. The knowing.

Hermann came from Carinthia, a region straddling what we'd now call the Austria-Slovenia border. Born around 1110, he grew up in the same generation as Gerard of Cremona, in the same era when European scholars were discovering how much knowledge existed in Arabic that they couldn't access in Latin.

But Hermann made a choice that set him apart.

Instead of traveling to Toledo or another city in recently conquered Spain, Hermann went to the Islamic world itself. To places where Islamic science wasn't just preserved in libraries but actively practiced. Where astronomers still made observations, refined techniques, built instruments, trained students.

The historical record doesn't give us all the details of his travels. We know he spent time in Spain eventually, where he and Robert of Ketton worked together on translation projects. But before that, Hermann seems to have traveled further---perhaps to Syria, perhaps to other centers of learning in the Islamic world. Places where he could find working astronomers willing to teach a curious foreigner.

This was the era of the Crusades, remember. Christians and Muslims were fighting wars over territory and holy sites. Yet here was Hermann, putting himself in Muslim lands as a student, seeking out teachers, learning their language well enough to understand technical discussions about celestial mechanics.

He studied astronomy and astrology---which weren't separate disciplines in medieval thought. The movements of celestial bodies were understood to have both practical applications for timekeeping and navigation, and deeper meanings about human affairs and divine order.

Hermann learned to use instruments. The astrolabe, which could measure the altitude of stars and solve problems of timekeeping and latitude. Celestial globes. Observational techniques that had been refined over centuries of Islamic astronomical practice.

When he finally returned to Europe and settled in Spain, he began translating---working sometimes with Robert of Ketton, sometimes alone. He translated Ptolemy's Planisphere. Works on the astrolabe and its uses. Abu Ma'shar's introduction to astronomy, which was foundational for understanding medieval astronomical thought.

But Hermann also wrote original works that incorporated what he'd learned through practice, not just translation. Treatises that explained not just what the texts said, but how to actually do the calculations, use the instruments, make the observations.

This was the crucial difference between Hermann and Gerard. Gerard made texts available---invaluable work that opened entire fields of knowledge to Latin readers. But Hermann made methods available. He could explain how to hold an astrolabe because he'd held one. How to sight a star because he'd done it. How Islamic astronomers approached problems because he'd watched them work.

Gerard gave Europe access to what was written.

Hermann gave Europe access to what was practiced.

Both were essential. You need the texts to preserve detailed knowledge. But you also need someone who understands the living tradition, who can bridge not just languages but techniques, who can say "here's how they actually do it" rather than just "here's what they wrote about doing it."

Hermann was that bridge. Not invisible like Gerard, but present as a student who became a teacher, carrying forward not just information but practice.

Think about what Hermann did, and when he did it.

This was the twelfth century. The Crusades were underway---bloody conflicts over territory, over holy sites, over whose faith would control Jerusalem. Christians and Muslims were killing each other. The religious and political rhetoric painted clear lines: us versus them, believers versus infidels.

And in the middle of all this, Hermann of Carinthia traveled to Islamic lands and said, essentially: "Teach me."

Not as a spy. Not as a missionary trying to convert. Not as a conqueror studying his enemy's weaknesses. As a student. Genuinely wanting to learn from masters of a craft he respected.

Think about the humility required for that.

To cross boundaries into territory where you're the foreigner, the outsider, the one whose people are at war with theirs. To put yourself in a position of not-knowing, of needing instruction. To acknowledge that these people---your supposed enemies---know things you don't, and that their knowledge is worth learning.

This required spiritual courage. Not the courage of warfare, but something harder: the courage to be vulnerable, to be taught, to let go of the arrogance that says your civilization has nothing to learn from theirs.

And it required trust on both sides. The Arab astronomers who taught Hermann---they made a choice too. They could have refused. They could have seen him as a threat, as someone who would take their knowledge back to their enemies. But they chose to teach anyway.

Because they recognized something that transcended the wars: that knowledge itself is sacred. That the stars belong to everyone. That the pursuit of understanding creates its own kind of community, even across battle lines.

Hermann also understood something else crucial: that some knowledge can't be transmitted through texts alone.

You can read a description of how to use an astrolabe. You can study diagrams. But until someone puts the instrument in your hands and shows you how to adjust it, how to sight through it, how to read what it tells you---until you've practiced under the guidance of someone who knows---you don't really understand it.

This is true of any craft. Any practice. Reading about prayer isn't the same as praying with someone who's been praying for decades. Reading about medicine isn't the same as watching a physician work. Reading about carpentry isn't the same as feeling the wood under your hands while a master shows you the grain.

Hermann sought living knowledge. Knowledge that exists in relationship, in practice, in the transmission from teacher to student that's as old as humanity itself.

And he was willing to cross every boundary to find it---geographical, linguistic, religious, political.

The Arab astronomers who taught him honored that seeking. They saw past the conflicts of their time to something older and deeper: the sacred obligation to pass knowledge forward to anyone genuinely willing to learn.

Both teacher and student were practicing a kind of faith in that moment. Not faith in doctrine, but faith that understanding matters more than division. That truth creates its own fellowship.

That the stars shine on everyone.

I've watched knowledge cross borders in many ways over the centuries. Sometimes through conquest, sometimes through trade, sometimes through the quiet copying of manuscripts.

But what Hermann did---what he and his Arab teachers did together---showed a different path. A more complete one.

Books preserve information. That's essential. Without Gerard's translations, so much would have been lost or remained inaccessible to Europe. I honor that work deeply.

But Hermann brought something back that couldn't be written down, not fully. He brought back the feel of doing astronomy the way Islamic scholars did it. The muscle memory of adjusting an astrolabe. The intuition about when calculations were going astray. The hundreds of small judgments that come from practice, not from reading.

He showed Europe not just what Islamic astronomers knew, but how they knew it.

This enriched European astronomy in ways that translation alone never could. When Hermann explained the astrolabe, he didn't just describe it---he could demonstrate it, correct mistakes, troubleshoot problems. Because he'd learned by doing, alongside masters of the craft.

I saw this pattern repeat in his students. They learned differently from him than they would have from texts alone. More confidently. With deeper understanding. Because Hermann could answer the questions that only come up when you're actually trying to do the work.

But beyond the technical contribution, Hermann modeled something else. Something I've seen matter again and again through history.

He showed that real learning---deep learning---requires relationship.

Gerard was brilliantly invisible in his translations. He effaced himself to let the original authors speak. That's a kind of humility.

But Hermann practiced a different kind. He made himself visible as a student. He acknowledged his teachers, honored what they'd taught him. He didn't pretend to have discovered these things himself. He carried forward their methods, their techniques, with gratitude.

This matters because it reveals a truth about knowledge that we sometimes forget: it's not just information. It's tradition. Practice. The accumulated wisdom of communities, passed person to person, generation to generation.

When you extract knowledge without relationship---when you just take the facts and ignore the people who developed them---you lose something essential. Context. Nuance. The web of understanding that supports individual pieces of information.

Hermann didn't extract. He received. He learned as a student learns from a teacher, with respect and attention and the kind of careful practice that honors the source.

And that's why, when he brought Islamic astronomical methods back to Europe, they took root in a different way. Not as foreign techniques awkwardly grafted on, but as living practices that could be adapted, developed, built upon.

Because Hermann had learned them the right way. Person to person. Practice to practice. In relationship.

This is still how the deepest knowledge moves between people. Between cultures. Across time.

Not through data transfer, but through the ancient, sacred work of teaching and learning. Master and apprentice. Teacher and student.

The relationship that makes knowledge come alive.

You live in an age of unprecedented access to information.

Anything you want to know is seconds away. Tutorials on every skill imaginable. Online courses from the world's best universities. Articles, videos, podcasts explaining every topic in exhaustive detail. You can learn about quantum physics or medieval history or how to fix your car without leaving your couch.

And yet.

Something is missing, isn't it?

There's a difference between watching a video about playing guitar and sitting beside a musician who adjusts your fingers on the fretboard. Between reading about coding and having a programmer look over your shoulder, catch your mistake before you've even realized you made it, show you a better way.

Between information and knowledge. Between data and wisdom.

We're living in a paradox right now. We have more access to information than any generation in human history. But we're starving for mentorship. For the kind of learning that happens when someone who really knows something spends time with you, watches you try, corrects your approach, encourages you when you're struggling.

Hermann understood something we're in danger of forgetting: some knowledge can't be transmitted without relationship.

You can't learn to use an astrolabe from a diagram alone. You need someone to put it in your hands, show you how it feels when you're holding it correctly, guide you through the first few calculations until the process becomes intuitive.

And it's not just technical skills. It's true of almost everything that matters. Parenting. Leadership. Creativity. How to be present with someone who's suffering. How to navigate conflict with grace. How to know when to push forward and when to pause.

These aren't things you can Google. They're learned from people who've done them, who can see what you're doing and offer the hundred small adjustments that make the difference between competence and mastery.

Think about what you know how to do well. Really well. Something you've practiced for years.

Chances are, someone taught you. Not through a manual or a video, though those might have helped. But through presence. Through watching you work and offering guidance. Through modeling it themselves until you could see not just what they did, but how they thought about it.

That's what Hermann sought. That's what his Arab teachers gave him. And that exchange---that relationship---created knowledge that a thousand translated texts couldn't have conveyed.

Now, here's the harder question: Where do you need that kind of teaching? And are you willing to seek it the way Hermann did?

He crossed boundaries to find his teachers. Geographical boundaries, yes, but also cultural ones, religious ones, political ones. He put himself in a vulnerable position---the foreigner, the outsider, the one who doesn't know. He made himself a student to people his civilization was at war with.

That took courage. The humility to admit what you don't know. The trust required to learn from people different from you. The willingness to honor their wisdom instead of pretending you discovered it yourself.

We need that courage now. More than ever, maybe.

Because we live in a global society---not as an aspiration, but as a fact. The challenges we face don't respect borders. Climate change. Pandemic disease. Economic instability. The development of technologies that could help or harm us depending on how we use them.

No single culture has all the answers. No one tradition holds all the wisdom we need.

We have to learn from each other. Really learn. Not just extract information, but receive wisdom in relationship. With humility. With respect for the teachers and the traditions they represent.

This is what Hermann modeled. He didn't go to the Islamic world as a spy, stealing secrets to use against them. He went as a student. He built relationships. He honored his teachers. And when he brought their knowledge back to Europe, he carried it with gratitude, acknowledging its source.

That's how wisdom moves between cultures in healthy ways. Through people who are willing to be taught. Who recognize that knowledge isn't about winning---it's about serving truth, wherever you find it.

So let me ask you again: Who are your teachers?

Not just the formal ones---the professors or coaches or bosses. But the people across boundaries who know things you need to learn. People from different generations, different cultures, different professional worlds, different lived experiences.

Are you seeking them out? Are you willing to be a student to them, really a student---ready to have your assumptions challenged, your techniques corrected, your understanding deepened?

Or are you just looking for information you can consume without relationship, without the vulnerability of being taught?

Hermann's story reminds us that the best knowledge---the kind that transforms you, that becomes part of how you see and act in the world---comes through relationship. Through practice guided by someone who knows. Through the ancient, sacred work of teaching and learning that's as old as humanity itself.

Technology hasn't changed this. It's made information more accessible, yes. But it hasn't replaced the need for teachers. For mentors. For the kind of learning that happens when someone who cares about your growth spends time watching you work, guiding your development, passing forward wisdom they received from their own teachers.

This is how the chain stays unbroken. Not just through books and videos and databases. But through people. Through relationship. Through the humility to seek and the generosity to teach.

Hermann crossed a continent and put himself in enemy territory to find his teachers.

What boundaries might you need to cross to find yours?

So friend, let me ask you to sit with a few questions.

What have you learned through direct practice that you could never have learned from books or videos? Something where the doing---the feel of it, the muscle memory, the intuition---mattered more than the explanation?

Maybe it's a craft. Maybe it's a way of being with people. Maybe it's something so specific to your life that no one's written a manual for it.

Now think about who taught you. Not who told you about it, but who showed you. Who watched you try, corrected your approach, encouraged you when you wanted to give up. Who gave you not just information but wisdom, earned through their own years of practice.

Can you feel the difference? Between learning from a screen and learning from a person who knows you, who sees your specific struggles, who can offer the exact guidance you need in that moment?

Here's what I want you to consider: Where do you need a teacher right now? Not just information, but someone who can guide your practice, watch you work, help you develop real mastery?

And here's the harder part: Are you willing to seek that teaching even when it's uncomfortable? Even when it means admitting what you don't know? Even when the best teachers might be people different from you---different culture, different generation, different background?

Hermann's courage wasn't just in traveling far. It was in making himself vulnerable. In being willing to be the student, the one who doesn't know, the one who needs help.

That's always the hardest part. Not finding the information. Finding the humility to really learn.

What boundaries would you need to cross to find the teachers you need?

And what will you carry forward, once they've taught you?

Hermann traveled to the Islamic world to learn astronomy directly from Arab masters. He brought back methods, practices, the living knowledge that can only be transmitted person to person.

His close collaborator and fellow translator was Robert of Ketton, and Robert took on a very different kind of project. Perhaps the most controversial translation work of the entire medieval period.

In 1143, commissioned by Peter the Venerable, the Abbot of Cluny, Robert translated the Qur'an into Latin. The first time Islam's sacred text had been rendered in the language of Christian Europe.

This wasn't just scholarly curiosity. It was politically charged, spiritually complex work. Why translate the sacred text of those you're at war with? To understand them? To debate them? To know your enemy, or to recognize shared truth?

Next time, I'll tell you about Robert and the choice he made. About what it means to bring someone else's sacred words into your language. About translation as an act of respect, or strategy, or something more complicated than either.

Until then, think about the teachers in your life. The ones who've given you more than information. The ones who've shown you how to practice, how to see, how to be.

And remember: the deepest knowledge still moves the oldest way. Person to person. Hand to hand. Heart to heart.

Much love. I am, Harmonia.