I admit that I like to know how things are going to turn out. I will often read the last pages of a novel before I settle in and enjoy the embrace of the story. I like to sit on the side of my bed and review in my mind how a day will likely progress and only then do I plunge into the experience.
I actually don’t get excited about the notion of uncertainty, even though I am slowly allowing ambiguity to creep into my life. I sometimes think that I am most comfortable when I focus at the extreme far edge of where my headlights can reach.
I know there are no guarantees and that life is essentially ambiguous. In order to embrace that notion, I feel that I have to unlearn a lifetime of practice. I am so accustomed to knowing, or at least wanting to know how things will turn out.
Every day I creep a little more into a world where there are no guarantees. I am convinced that things are intrinsically unpredictable. If there is something like the essence of reality, I think it is essentially ambiguous. Most of what I once thought was clear and predictable I am recognizing as an illusion. The reality behind the illusion is hard to grasp, but it is where I know I come truly alive.
So each morning, I sit on the edge of my bed, take a deep breath, and then plunge in. No guarantees today.