Not knowing is the new normal. This thought emerged while talking with a friend last week about the vicissitudes and ripple effect of the ever-evolving COVID pandemic. When I reflected more deeply later about not-knowing, it occurred to me that “knowing” in an intellectual way has always been an illusion.
October 4 is my birthday, a beginning of a new year — a time of discernment. Having had a milestone birthday in 2020 that got lost in the shuffle, I expected a quiet birthday this year. A friend reminded me that 71 is a prime number. It’s indivisible. I wanted a day of quiet wholeness. That is not what happened.
I had noticed that the nail on my left big toe looked a little lavender. With chronically challenged feet, I knew that wasn’t good. I started lacing my sneakers tighter, so my foot would not slide forward. But when I awakened on my birthday, I noticed my toenail was deep purple. I decided that taking care of myself would be an important birthday present.
I called my podiatrist, who just happened to have a cancellation. Household schedules were adjusted. My journal and current favorite book were put aside.
My podiatrist removed the toenail. As he did so, he said, “I’ll numb you if I have to, but you should already be screaming by now.” It’s the only time neuropathy has worked in my favor. Now for the healing…
I attempted to make cider out of bad apples and tried to fill my thoughts with the brilliant, peak foliage I enjoyed on the drive through fog and drizzle. Fall feels like a luminous time, a seed-setting, generative time, an invitation to transformation.
Many agree that transformation comes only out of chaos. Things have to change form before they can become something new.
Perhaps that is what I was thinking back in 2012 when I was on retreat at Kripalu in the Berkshires during fall foliage. My retreat was quiet and spacious on the periphery of a workshop happening elsewhere on campus. I decided to walk the labyrinth to bow to my inner knowing — heart not head.
Here is a poem I wrote before heading home the next day, sitting on a bench beside the labyrinth.
Fall Labyrinth
I walked Fall’s labyrinth yesterday,
the path well-worn and overgrown
with unattentive weeds between intended seeds
ornamental grasses so heavy with their late weight,
they tripped me with their fading beauty.
Expecting to find this place alone--
a whole class exploring something
walked in uneasy silence
wondering when they would get “there.”
Where would they be then?
Circled in the center, eyes down with embarrassment
they waited to be excused.
The leader in purple gave no time for the last to reflect
on how she had come to this place
before the procession outward began at quicker pace.
I stepped aside to let them pass, one after another
most with faint smiles at the emissary from outside,
unaware that she had been in many times
and knew that no one was going exactly home again.
It is mid-October, and we have not had a frost — extraordinary for the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. Even nature is not-knowing this year. Dandelions are dotted with honey bees. Chipmunks nibble ripe rosehips from summer blossoming beside new blooms. There are still dragonflies on the pond. The asparagus is coming up.
The ancient wisdom traditions valued knowing that you don’t know as a sign of spiritual maturity. Perhaps we are coming of age. What do you know you don’t know now?