Uncertainty

When the rivers near the villages where our ancestors lived were filled with fish and the bushes loaded with berries, why would they wander far from camp into the perils of the unknown? Beyond the perceived safety of the comfort zone of the firelight, might they not wind up eaten by a bear or lost and alone? Yet, into the unknown, past the tree line, and over the mountains they went. At times, of course, because they had to, such as when the berries ran out and the fish had moved on. Other times though, like us, they were compelled by the mystery of the unknown and the desire to explore. In our own lives we might look closer at our relationships to change, to fear, and to the unknown. We could ask ourselves when it is wise to be still and how we might know when it is time to move on.

Rooted in our attempts to stay in our psychological comfort zone, the human experience is ironically fraught with great pain. It makes sense that we would want to set up our camps where the living is easy. It’s also important, however, that we pay attention to the nature of change that is written into the DNA of all things and to the suffering that arises when we fight that.

Bring to mind the image of a lobster, or better still its close relative the crayfish. If you take a note from the pages of a raccoon’s life, you can walk the shallows of most streams in the northeast flipping over rocks and find crayfish darting for safety. To the touch, their shells are hard, and their pincers tell you that you ought to leave well enough alone. The interesting thing about these creatures, with all the look of being invincible within their protective exoskeletons, is that as they grow their insides begin to push against their own protective shell. The time always comes when they no longer fit the container that once held them so well. If they did not shed their old skin and allow the growth that must occur, they too would suffer greatly. How vulnerable it must feel to go without that protective shell for a time, to have to let go of the old before the new is fully established. Yet, this is the very nature of things.

Similarly, in our own lives we must also be courageous when it comes to growth. In ourselves as with all of nature, change is part of the natural rhythm and something we can practice opening to. Autumn transitions to winter and winter to spring. Hundred-year floods cause rivers to swing wildly across the landscape, carving new channels. Relationships, jobs, houses, our bodies, and even our desires all look different over time. Change is not only inevitable, but also crucial for growth. Without the period of cold in winter many seeds cannot grow in the spring, and without floods depositing nutrient-rich sediment, the surrounding lands are less rich and fertile.

To respond well to the many joys and sorrows, ups and downs that make up our days and to meet the needs of the earth and our collective lives, we must learn the wisdom of opening to uncertainty. While this takes courage and strength, it need not be a solemn undertaking. Approached with kindness and curiosity for ourselves and fellow travelers, this opening to the unknown and embracing of mystery brings us closer to the stability and peace that we all seek and that is already here within us.

In what we call the Night Class in one of our intensive programs, students join us at the periphery of the forest in the hour before sunset. Beginning right at the edge of their comfort zone between daylight and darkness, the known human world and the deep forest, we pause and listen. The mystery of what is to come stirs excitement and fear. Students take time to connect with friends and to greet strangers as they gather supplies together for the night ahead. In small groups they are led off-trail and into the woods, where in the fading light they learn that to return to this beginning spot will require them to navigate the forest at midnight without the aid of a flashlight, a guide, or a trail. The need to get home sharpens their awareness, and as they walk, they pay rapt attention to trees, rocks, topography, and even the feel of the earth underfoot.

Arriving at an unknown area in the forest, we establish a base camp. Fires are built in the darkness, and small groups of students bond together as they share stories, laughter, and the task of preparing tea, food, and crafts for the evening’s celebration. The Night Class, like all of life, ebbs and flows with experiences and emotions. The moment-to-moment challenges and uncertainty of what might come next are mixed with moments of peace and a sense of accomplishment for tasks done well. Here, worry arises that the fire won’t light, but soon the pleasant sensation of citrusy warm pine needle tea with honey travels from cup to mouth to belly. The boundaries of one’s comfort zone often begin to expand as what was once the unknown dark forest becomes a refuge—a timeless place without phones, to-do lists, or agendas.

Then, as the food prepared over the fire is consumed, stories shared, and the flames burn low, a question is asked. Are you ready to again open to change and see what growth may occur? How do you want to be in relation with the unknown? The fire, now tended down to coals so no flame remains, allows the darkness to take center stage. The students are led single file into the night and left one by one to sit with the forest and themselves. Left one at a time at the base of a tree, they listen while the rest of the group continues. What might run through your mind if you took a seat in the forest alone in the dark? How do you wish to respond to the unknown, the mystery?

When everyone has been given a spot and the silence has returned to the forest, the sounds of nature can be heard. An owl calling in the distance, the soft passing of a deer or fox in the night. Perhaps leaves rustle a bit too close for comfort as some unknown creature explores its own edges, coming to see who is visiting its home. Minutes pass, and the eyes adjust. Darkness may not seem so dark anymore. Shapes and silhouettes can be made out. The tree you lean against can be felt swaying in the night. Even in an imperceptible breeze, the trees rooted in the earth and stretching to the heavens are always adjusting to find balance. Enough time goes by perhaps for fears to come or for fears to go. Thoughts arise and fade away. This is exciting, this is terrifying, this is relaxing, or this is boring. In the stillness and in the space of the unknown there is more room to see ourselves clearly.

We have thoughts and emotions, but we are not our thoughts and emotions. We feel hot or cold, comfortable or stiff, but we are more than these sensations. Who are we beyond these weather systems that move through our awareness? Sitting in contact with the earth below and the sky above, perhaps in a moment one experiences oneself not as a separate being but as part of all creation. Perhaps it becomes understood that you can feel safe and scared at the same time. You can feel uncertain and yet remain open. You can feel a cramp in your leg or the bite of a mosquito while simultaneously smiling at the miracle of life.

At some point in the timeless sit, from back at the coals of base camp, the sound of a drum is heard. BOOM … it rings loud, and then space is given for the sound to reverberate through the forest until it fades to silence. Again BOOM … and silence. Over and over, like a slow heartbeat, the drum calls the students back. With instructions given earlier in the night, they rise from their solo sit and place a blindfold over their eyes. The drum leading them home, they move in complete darkness at the pace that the land asks for. Their ears, feet, hands, and sense of touch become the means to navigate back—the unknown present once more; uncertainty felt in each step. The fundamental questions, Can I do this? and Will I be okay? are often asked. Don’t we all wonder this? What supports them here is the sense of belonging to a group and the power of their intentions. The goal is not to be the first back but to be present each step of the way. It is not a race or a contest, it is life. Take your time. Feel into the experience. Trust yourself and the earth to show you how.

Step by step, moment to moment, everyone makes their way back to the central fire. When they have all arrived and the fire is rekindled so the flames illuminate each person, they begin to share. Though they were alone, they felt bonded, held by the group and the shared experience of meeting their own edges. They speak of the raw emotions and share insights from their time sitting alone and of the acute awareness generated during the walk back. They share about their fears, unsettling moments, the connections they made, and the surprising sense of peace so many of them felt. When asked to sum the experience up in just one word, they say “calm,” “excited,” “surprised,” “peaceful,” “joyful,” “scared,” “safe.” They talk of running into trees and bushes and the need to slow down and begin again. They speak of not encountering any obstacles and question how they could have moved through a forest blindfolded without encountering a single tree. There is a lightness of spirit as they share and another expansion of their comfort zones as they see that they can meet uncertainty and fear with more curiosity and grace than they had realized. When they rise to begin their walk back to campus to the built and known world, they seem not even to hesitate to walk into the darkness and uncertain way home. Perhaps they are confident that they can find their way, or maybe they sense now that even if they get lost, they will be okay, open to the mystery, the moment and the unknown.

Try: Like the crayfish and the lobster, to grow, we must at times leave behind the security of the shell that no longer fits us. We don’t need to dive into the deep end of the pool without knowing how to swim, however. We can begin by noticing our resistance and strong emotions like fear in our day-to-day lives.

A great practice for this is called RAIN.¹ As defined by psychologist, author, mindfulness instructor, and my teacher Tara Brach, RAIN is an acronym for Recognize what is going on; Allow the experience to be there just as it is; Investigate with interest and care; Nurture with self-compassion.

Choose a spot where you can meditate for a time without being disturbed. Begin by taking a few minutes to notice your breathing and to come more fully into the present. After a time, if a sense of resistance, fear, or other strong emotions are not already present, bring to mind the images or story that contains some challenge or edge for you. Be mindful not to choose something that is traumatic at this point but instead focus on something that is difficult or where you feel stuck.

In the R of RAIN, we simply notice and name what is present, what we are experiencing, thinking, or feeling. There may be a single strong emotion or a whole constellation of emotions. Either way, simply feel and name what is present.

In the A of RAIN, we practice allowing ourselves to feel what is here to be felt, seeing what is here to be seen. This does not mean you have to enjoy what you are feeling or condone some unjust situation, but rather cultivate a willingness to be present for what is or has happened. Jon Kabot-Zinn says that “whatever it is, it’s already here, let me feel it.”²

In the I of RAIN, we drop deeper into the felt experience of the situation. Investigating in this way is not a heavy cognitive analysis. Feel into your body, scanning through it and ask, “Where do I feel this?” and “What does this feeling most want me to know or understand?”

In the N of RAIN, we lean into self-compassion. Some people find it helpful to place a hand over their heart and to offer a gentle physical reminder of being there for yourself and your challenges. You can try this, saying phrases like “I see you” or “I am here for you.” In the N of RAIN it can also be helpful to ask yourself, “What do you need?” or “What would be helpful right now?” Compassion and kindness here are key.

Finally, like after a spring rain, we can notice what has bloomed. After the RAIN, let everything go—the story, the questions, the focus—and for a few moments simply feel out into the wider world around you. Sit and be held in presence, in stillness, in the vast open expanse that is life.