Master the Unknown
Nothing Is More Stable Than the Unknown
It is perennially stable - solid ambiguity, Its stoic, steady, reliable.
If there is anything we can trust in, it is that which is beyond us. For beyond us is absolutely everything - our dreams, our fears, all of our intentions. What is beyond us is the secret target of all effort.
There we aim to transform anything.
It is the magnet of our endeavors for, regardless of whatever face we paint on our intentions, we are drawn into ignorance and the promise that, eventually, we can say, "I know. I know this."
The determinist within us quickly blusters, "That's not true! We know a lot. Look at all we have, all we've done. Look at what science has discovered. We have encyclopedias, libraries, wickis full of knowledge - a whole internet of things. We know stuff. We have addresses for most of it."
Is it experience that is a harsh mistress? Or was that ignorance?
Experience, at a minimum, is a know-it-all. And a hoarder. Her storage is crammed with every artifact of being here - a history of what has been, still is and, because its boxed and labeled, will still be, We like to count on that..
That warehouse is full of ghosts. History is stories, memories, photographs and records in a vault. We make them relics - precious aftermaths, theme parks memory can visit and indulge in reverie. Here we feel anchored, have roots. Everything that was, everything that we have gone through gives us place and meaning and a reason to believe. Thinking this is who we are, we go forward and drag the mass behind us.
Experience Is a Snippet of The Unknown
Yet all experience floats alone on a sea of the unknown where dark matter whips up waves we cannot see. Always the unknown.
We have no scale for what is not. There is no measure for what's about to be. No standards can be count on for what comes next. Science cannot say where it begins or it might end.
It's inhabited by expectations and phantasms, ghost walkers, bumps in the night of hope and fear. It will take some large hadron collider to penetrate it. Billions of dollars must be burnt in copper and in magnets to capture even a scintilate of what does not exist so we can claim it is, measure and define it and even then, we will only know it by its potential - the scale of what might be..
What is it about what is it that we, living in the midst of it, completely ignore? Why do we make the unknown unimportant, reduce it to irrelevance, make it unmeaningful compared to our confidence in nothing more that declarations that "it is what it is," as if that was so substantial.
When in fact, its not and never was and has nothing to do with it - the unknown.
We have surrounded it with placeholders of definition, names, descriptions that, over time, are all eroded by the motion of becoming, reducing every understanding to a muttering of "HuhS?" and "What?s" and "How did that happen?"
When it all was so constant and consistently unfathomable from the beginning - just as it ever was, just as it ever was.
We live suspended in wonder and surprise.
Become Comfortable With The Unknown
Should we not become more comfortable with this?
Would we not be better to feel at home in the unknown? If this steady open-endedness is all we will ever get to work with, could we not become more masterful in wonder, in the magic of surprise, more accomplished in our motion through ambiguity? Is that not the stumbling of all things from one moment to the next, self-righting on the run and even coming off quite poised at times, perfectly balanced in the formless shift of position from here to there, from now to then?
For here we are somewhere in forever for just a time, moving at the speed of light and changing everything about us into something else. I mean, really, can we not come to grips with that?
And if we did come to grips with this spacious, open wonder would wonder then ensue and we become more wonderful, simply more accomplished at translation of the empty into the full, more adept at taking every opportunity and spinning it towards the better if not the best?
As an art, I mean, as a skillful means in motion over time, creating a loom of understanding weaving the effervescent openness of what could be.
It is our right.
From the beginning,
We are sovereigns in the realm of all that not yet is.
We are becoming.
We are the self-mastering being of becoming,
Autopoetic from beginning to end.
However long it takes, we are becoming.