Your post landed deep. Especially this: “To not know is to stop holding on.”
Whew. I felt that.
It’s taken me years — decades really — to even begin to experience not knowing as something other than a threat. For most of my life, I didn’t just seek certainty, I clung to it. Trying to understand, to plan, to get ahead of what might hurt — that wasn’t a personality trait, it was survival. I didn’t know that back then. I just thought I was intense. Overthinking, overpreparing, overeverything.
And I wasn’t aware of the inner fragility underneath it all — just the irritation when plans changed, or the quiet shame of procrastination when I couldn’t bring myself to move forward. There were years where “not knowing” didn’t feel spiritual. It felt like being frozen in place.
Your words helped me remember how far I’ve come. It’s been about 15 years since I lived in that particular kind of freeze, but reading this brought the contrast forward in a good way. There’s a softness now. A compassion toward that part of me that thought certainty was the only way to be safe.
I don’t need it to be different anymore. I can see the intelligence in what once looked like dysfunction. And there’s a real kind of peace in that — not performative peace, but the kind that shows up quietly and says, “You’re okay. You’ve always been okay.”
As I turn 55 this week, that feels like the deeper knowing:
That I don’t have to know.
That I can live with the mystery.
That I’ve got me.
Thank you for the beauty and clarity in your writing. It’s more than words. It’s a mirror. A reminder.
I sense the truth in your words - even when I am not able still to apply this truth in everyday life; the idea of openness, daring or willing to be present with whatever comes up, which means to give up resistance and to soften - time after time and again in every moment. Thank you, Amoda.
In reading these deep words, Amoda, I felt like I was at a spa, covered in hot wet towels, steaming with presence and in full surrender to not feeling the need to know, but also not having the desire to know. The open spaces, the urge to know this, and this, and the next have been massaged into a blissful peace. After a week of many loose ends, this is just what I needed. Thank you, as always for your wise words that flow from your open heart.
Not only in a spiritual sense. There are many experiences that are beyond our ability to fit into any category. Putting any experience into a predetermined box diminishes our ability to experience life.
"Let yourself be breathed by life. Let the wave carry you. Let the mystery unfold — not according to your will, but according to its own rhythm.
This is deep rest. This is peace."
What a scary and exciting invitation.
But then again, I suppose Life has been breathing me my whole life, and the mystery has been unfolding whether I noticed it or not.
Thanks for the beautiful reminder. 🙏
Your post landed deep. Especially this: “To not know is to stop holding on.”
Whew. I felt that.
It’s taken me years — decades really — to even begin to experience not knowing as something other than a threat. For most of my life, I didn’t just seek certainty, I clung to it. Trying to understand, to plan, to get ahead of what might hurt — that wasn’t a personality trait, it was survival. I didn’t know that back then. I just thought I was intense. Overthinking, overpreparing, overeverything.
And I wasn’t aware of the inner fragility underneath it all — just the irritation when plans changed, or the quiet shame of procrastination when I couldn’t bring myself to move forward. There were years where “not knowing” didn’t feel spiritual. It felt like being frozen in place.
Your words helped me remember how far I’ve come. It’s been about 15 years since I lived in that particular kind of freeze, but reading this brought the contrast forward in a good way. There’s a softness now. A compassion toward that part of me that thought certainty was the only way to be safe.
I don’t need it to be different anymore. I can see the intelligence in what once looked like dysfunction. And there’s a real kind of peace in that — not performative peace, but the kind that shows up quietly and says, “You’re okay. You’ve always been okay.”
As I turn 55 this week, that feels like the deeper knowing:
That I don’t have to know.
That I can live with the mystery.
That I’ve got me.
Thank you for the beauty and clarity in your writing. It’s more than words. It’s a mirror. A reminder.
I sense the truth in your words - even when I am not able still to apply this truth in everyday life; the idea of openness, daring or willing to be present with whatever comes up, which means to give up resistance and to soften - time after time and again in every moment. Thank you, Amoda.
In reading these deep words, Amoda, I felt like I was at a spa, covered in hot wet towels, steaming with presence and in full surrender to not feeling the need to know, but also not having the desire to know. The open spaces, the urge to know this, and this, and the next have been massaged into a blissful peace. After a week of many loose ends, this is just what I needed. Thank you, as always for your wise words that flow from your open heart.
As a German Biologist ...
In the summer of 1982, at the Université Louis Pasteur in Strasbourg, France,
I stood before five Professors of the Faculty of Medicine
to defend my PhD in Molecular Genetics and Biochemistry—in French.
A German with fractured language skills,
I felt like a climber stranded in Mount Everest’s death zone,
oxygen-depleted and 100 meters from the summit.
Every second of my presentation was a mental tightrope walk,
double-checking French vocabulary and grammar.
For a foreigner, it was a linguistic nightmare.
I recall a dissociative haze,
as if my body were piloted by some external force
while my mind hovered in a near-death state.
When the audience applauded, I couldn’t fathom how I’d survived.
Their kindness—likely laced with pity
for a struggling German in a French institution—
felt like a surrender to fate.
Had I truly earned this doctorate, or was it a mercy grant?
The paradox
This ordeal became the pinnacle of my career,
a solitary Everest ascent without ropes or oxygen.
Surviving that academic death zone
imbued me with a Buddhist-like humility.
I never boast of achievements,
knowing firsthand how fragile success can be.
It’s a daily reminder that we possess untapped reservoirs of strength,
capable of summoning 1000% of our capacity when survival demands it.
There’s no pride in this victory—only gratitude.
Like a shaman sensing unseen guides,
I felt “spirit helpers” steering me through the storm.
Left to my own devices, I’d never have begun such a perilous journey.
The labs in Strasbourg were pressure-cookers,
akin to coal mines where camaraderie becomes life support.
Colleagues became my oxygen,
their presence as vital as the air at high altitude.
I could never replicate this trial.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime crucible.
To whatever gods may listen:
Thank you for this baptism by fire.
For an unquenchable soul.
Thank you.
Not only in a spiritual sense. There are many experiences that are beyond our ability to fit into any category. Putting any experience into a predetermined box diminishes our ability to experience life.
thank you for this, very helpful reminders
This writing was so much delivered. So well spoken with your breathless words and mindless intelligence. Very good, thanks
Thank You.