Chapter 11: It Is All Right Not to Know

Waiting for the Announcement

Rafael is thirty-five and works in the accounts department of a medium-sized company that makes kitchen equipment. For three weeks, there have been rumours. The company is being reorganized. Some departments will be merged. Some jobs may disappear. Nobody knows which ones. The managers say only that an announcement will be made "in due course".

Rafael cannot stop thinking about it. At work, he and his colleagues talk about little else, comparing rumours and guessing. At home, he searches online for news about the company late into the night. He makes plans for every possibility: what he will do if he keeps his job, if he is moved to another department, if he is made redundant. He calculates his savings again and again. He sleeps badly. His partner notices that he is distracted and short-tempered.

One evening, after another hour of searching for information that does not exist, Rafael realizes something. He has spent three weeks trying to know something that cannot yet be known. All his guessing and planning has not brought the answer any closer. It has only made him tired. The truth is very simple: he does not know what will happen. And there is nothing he can do, right now, to change that.

Rafael's situation is familiar to many people. We live with uncertainty about work, health, relationships, the future of our children and the world. And many of us find not knowing extremely uncomfortable. We try to escape it by searching, guessing, planning and worrying. Zen has a surprising attitude toward not knowing. It does not treat it as a problem to be solved as quickly as possible. It treats it, in some ways, as a doorway. This chapter explores that attitude.

"Who Is Standing Before Me?"

One of the most famous Zen stories comes at the very beginning of a twelfth-century Chinese collection of Zen cases called the Blue Cliff Record. It tells of a meeting between Bodhidharma, the semi-legendary monk said to have brought the Chan way of practice to China, and Emperor Wu, a ruler who was a devoted supporter of Buddhism. Historians doubt that this meeting happened as told, but the story has been treasured for centuries for what it points to.

In my own retelling: Emperor Wu asked Bodhidharma, "What is the highest meaning of the sacred truth?" Bodhidharma answered, "Vast emptiness, nothing sacred." The emperor, puzzled and perhaps offended, asked, "Then who is this standing in front of me?" Bodhidharma replied, "I do not know." The emperor did not understand, and Bodhidharma left.

Bodhidharma's answers are not what anyone would expect from a great teacher. The emperor wanted a clear, impressive statement. Instead, he was told that there is nothing sacred and that the teacher in front of him did not know who he himself was. To many readers, these answers seem strange or even rude. But in the Zen tradition, they are understood as deep teaching.

One way to understand "I do not know" is that Bodhidharma refused to give a fixed answer to a question about the deepest nature of the self. Any answer, such as "I am a monk", "I am a teacher" or "I am an enlightened being", would have been a label, a concept, a box. And the living reality of a person cannot be fully contained in any box. By saying "I do not know", Bodhidharma pointed to something more open and alive than any label: the direct experience of being, before we start describing it.

There is also a kind of honesty in his answer. Most of us, if we are truthful, do not fully know who we are. We have many ideas about ourselves, but they change, they contradict each other and they never quite capture the whole. Bodhidharma's "I do not know" can be heard not as evasion but as a simple, honest statement of something that is true for all of us.

"Not Knowing Is Most Intimate"

Another short story, found as case twenty in a later Chinese collection called the Book of Equanimity, makes a related point even more directly. It concerns a young monk named Fayan, who later became a well-known teacher, and an older teacher named Dizang.

In my own retelling: Fayan was travelling from monastery to monastery, as monks often did, looking for teaching. He stopped at Dizang's temple. Dizang asked him, "Where are you going?" Fayan said, "I am wandering on pilgrimage." Dizang asked, "What is the purpose of your pilgrimage?" Fayan answered honestly, "I do not know." Dizang said, "Not knowing is most intimate." In the traditional telling, Fayan had a deep awakening on hearing this.

"Not knowing is most intimate" is one of the most loved phrases in Zen. What could it mean? One way to understand it is that, when we think we know something, we often stop meeting it directly. We relate to our idea of it rather than to the thing itself. When we do not know, we have to stay open, to look and listen closely. In that openness, we are in direct, intimate contact with what is actually here.

Think of meeting a person you think you already know. You may stop really listening, because you think you know what they will say. Now think of meeting someone new, or of a moment when someone you know surprises you. You lean in, you listen, you are fully present. Not knowing makes us intimate with the moment, because we cannot rely on our assumptions.

This connects with beginner's mind, which we explored in the seventh chapter. A beginner does not know, and so a beginner looks. Dizang's phrase suggests that this not knowing is not a weakness to be overcome on the way to knowing. It is a precious state in its own right, a way of being close to life.

What Koans Do

Stories like these are examples of what Zen calls koans. A koan is a short story, question or exchange from the Zen tradition, used in some schools of Zen as a focus for practice. The Blue Cliff Record, the Gateless Gate and the Book of Equanimity are all collections of koans.

One of the best known koans is the first case of the Gateless Gate. A monk asked the teacher Zhaozhou whether a dog has Buddha nature, the potential for awakening that, according to Buddhist teaching, all beings possess. The expected answer was yes. Zhaozhou answered with a single word, mu in Japanese, which can mean "no" or "not" or "nothing". Students who work with this koan are often asked to sit with the single word, not to explain it, but to become completely absorbed in it.

Koans are not riddles with clever solutions, and they are not puzzles to be solved by logic. If you try to work them out with your thinking mind, you will usually get stuck. That, in a sense, is the point. Koans are designed to unsettle our usual ways of thinking, to bring us to the edge of what concepts can grasp, so that we meet experience more directly. In traditional koan practice, a student works with a koan for a long time, sometimes years, under the guidance of a teacher, and presents their understanding in private meetings.

This book is not a guide to koan practice, which belongs within the relationship between a student and a qualified teacher. But even outside that setting, koans can be appreciated as a reminder that not everything can be understood by thinking about it, and that being willing not to know can open a door that clever answers keep closed.

Interestingly, people who have never practised Zen often meet something like a koan in ordinary life. A child asks, "Where was I before I was born?" A dying parent asks, "Was my life worth it?" A friend asks, "Why did this happen to me?" These questions cannot be answered with a neat sentence. Trying to answer them too quickly can feel hollow. Sometimes the most honest response is to stay with the question together, in silence or in gentle conversation, and to let it open us rather than close us.

The Rush to Know

Why is not knowing so uncomfortable for most of us? Part of the reason may be that, for much of human history, knowing what was happening could be a matter of survival. Is that rustle in the grass a predator? Will there be enough food for the winter? Uncertainty signalled possible danger, and the mind learned to treat it as a threat.

In modern life, this ancient sensitivity is often far more active than it needs to be. We face many uncertainties that we cannot resolve quickly: about our jobs, our health, our relationships, the economy and the future. The mind treats each one as a threat and tries to resolve it, by searching for information, imagining possibilities and planning for every outcome. When the uncertainty cannot be resolved, as in Rafael's case, the mind keeps trying anyway, and we become exhausted and anxious.

Psychologists who study worry and anxiety have found that people differ in how well they can tolerate uncertainty, and that people who find uncertainty especially hard to bear tend to worry more. This suggests that learning to live with not knowing, rather than always trying to escape it, may be an important part of feeling calmer.

The rush to know also leads us into premature answers. Faced with uncertainty, we often grab the first explanation that comes to mind, just to end the discomfort. "My friend has not replied, so she must be angry with me." "My manager looked serious, so I must be in trouble." These quick answers feel better than not knowing, for a moment, but they are often wrong, and they can lead us to act in ways we regret.

Zen offers another way. It invites us to notice the discomfort of not knowing, to feel it in the body and to stay with it, without rushing to fill it with answers. This is not easy. But with practice, many people find that not knowing becomes less frightening, and that they can live with open questions more calmly.

Don't-Know Mind in Daily Life

Some modern Zen teachers have used the phrase "don't-know mind" to describe the open, curious attitude that Bodhidharma's and Dizang's words point to. Don't-know mind is not ignorance or confusion. It is a deliberate willingness to stay open, to not jump to conclusions and to meet each moment freshly.

Don't-know mind can be practised in conversation. When someone tells you about a problem, instead of immediately offering advice or assuming you understand, you might stay with not knowing a little longer. You might ask, "What is it like for you?" and really listen. Often, the other person needs to be heard more than they need an answer, and your openness gives them room.

It can be practised in parenting and caring for others. A parent who thinks they know exactly why their child is upset may miss what is really going on. A parent who can say, at least inwardly, "I do not know what is happening for you right now. Let me find out," is more likely to understand.

It can be practised in decisions. When facing a hard choice, it can help to admit honestly, "I do not know what the right answer is yet," rather than forcing a decision before you are ready. Admitting not knowing can relieve pressure and make room for the answer to emerge more naturally, through reflection, conversation or simply time.

And it can be practised in the ordinary moments of the day. When you look at a familiar face, a familiar street, a familiar task, you can remind yourself, "I do not really know this. Let me look again." This is beginner's mind in action, and it makes ordinary life more vivid.

"I do not know" can also be one of the most honest and freeing things a person can say aloud. Many people feel they must always have an answer, at work, at home, among friends. But pretending to know when we do not is tiring, and it can lead to mistakes. Being able to say "I do not know, but I will find out" or simply "I do not know" is a sign of maturity, not weakness.

Not Knowing and Fear

Not knowing is not always gentle. Sometimes it is frightening: waiting for medical results, waiting to hear whether a loved one is safe, waiting for a decision that will change our lives. In these moments, the Zen teaching about not knowing is not a way of pretending that we do not care. It is a way of staying present with the fear, rather than being completely swept away by it.

One helpful approach is to notice the difference between what we do not know and what we do know. Rafael did not know what would happen to his job. But he did know that, right now, he was sitting in his kitchen, that his partner was beside him, that he was breathing, that dinner was on the table. The future was uncertain, but the present was here. Coming back to the present does not solve the uncertainty, but it gives us somewhere to stand.

Another approach is to feel the fear in the body. Uncertainty often shows up as tightness in the chest, a knot in the stomach or tension in the shoulders. Instead of thinking about the uncertainty, we can gently notice these sensations, breathe with them and let them be there. Often, when we stop fighting the fear and simply feel it, it softens a little.

A third approach is to do what can be done, and then let go of the rest. Rafael could update his records of his work, talk with his partner about their finances and look at what other jobs existed in his field. These were sensible, concrete steps. But after taking them, endless searching for news that did not yet exist was not helping. Doing what is in our power, and then returning to the present, is a balance that Zen supports.

And if the fear becomes overwhelming, it is important not to face it alone. Talking with people you trust, or with a doctor or counsellor, can help a great deal. Zen practice can support us in hard times, alongside that human help.

Three Lives Without Answers

Lea is twenty-two and has just finished her studies. Her friends seem to know exactly what they want to do next, and everyone asks her, "So, what are your plans?" Lea does not know, and the question makes her feel ashamed and anxious. She spends hours reading about careers, trying to force an answer. A family friend, an older woman who changed careers several times, tells her: "It is all right not to know yet. Try something, learn from it and keep your eyes open." Lea takes a temporary job in a library, volunteers at an animal shelter and starts a short evening course. She still does not know her long-term path. But she has started to treat not knowing as a time of exploration rather than failure.

Sun-hee is forty-four, and her teenage son has become quiet and withdrawn. She does not know why, and her mind fills with frightening explanations. She is tempted to question him intensely or to decide on her own what is wrong. Instead, she tries to stay with not knowing. She spends time with him without pressing, cooks his favourite meals, sits beside him while he plays games and makes it clear she is there if he wants to talk. After a few weeks, he tells her that he has been having problems with a group of boys at school. Because she did not rush to conclusions, he felt safe enough to share. Together, they talk to his teacher. She also makes sure he knows he can talk to a counsellor if he wants to.

Ibrahim is eighty and has been told by his doctor that he needs more tests to understand some changes in his health. The results will take two weeks. Ibrahim has practised sitting meditation for many years. He does not pretend that he is not worried. But each morning, he sits for twenty minutes, feeling his breath and the worry in his chest, and saying silently, "I do not know." Then he spends the day doing what he can: walking in the park, calling his grandchildren, reading. He tells his daughter that the not knowing is still hard, but that it no longer swallows his whole day.

Rafael, from the beginning of this chapter, decides to limit his searching for news to ten minutes each evening. He talks openly with his partner about his fear and their options. He takes a few practical steps. And when he notices himself spinning possibilities at night, he says to himself, "I do not know yet," and returns to his breath. The announcement, when it comes, is mixed: his department will be merged, but his job will continue with some changes. Rafael is relieved, but he also notices that the weeks of waiting taught him something: that he can live with not knowing better than he thought.

Practical Steps

First, notice the rush to know. When you feel uncomfortable with uncertainty, notice the urge to search, guess or decide quickly. Simply noticing the urge is a first step.

Second, say "I do not know." When you truly do not know something, say so, silently or aloud. Notice how it feels to admit it honestly.

Third, separate what you know from what you do not. When facing uncertainty, write down two lists: what you know and what you do not know. Often, the first list is more steadying than you expect.

Fourth, do what can be done, then return. Take the practical steps that are in your power, and then come back to the present moment instead of endlessly searching or worrying.

Fifth, practise don't-know mind with people. In conversations, try asking open questions and listening without assuming you know the answer.

Sixth, feel the uncertainty in the body. When not knowing feels frightening, notice where you feel it in your body, and breathe gently with those sensations.

A Short Practice: Sitting With "I Do Not Know"

This practice takes about ten minutes. It is best done after a few weeks of basic sitting practice.

Sit in your usual posture, upright and comfortable. Settle for a few minutes with the breath, counting or following it, until you feel steady.

Now bring to mind a situation in your life where you do not know what will happen. Choose something of moderate difficulty, not the most frightening thing in your life. It might be a decision you have not made, a relationship that is uncertain, or a future event whose outcome you cannot predict.

Notice what happens in your mind and body when you think about it. Perhaps thoughts rush in with possibilities, plans and worries. Perhaps you feel tension somewhere in the body. Notice all of this without judging it.

Now, on each out-breath, say silently, "I do not know." Let the words be gentle and honest, not despairing. You are not giving up. You are simply acknowledging the truth. Feel the breath, feel the body and let the not knowing be there.

When thoughts arise, trying to solve the uncertainty, notice them, and on the next out-breath, return to "I do not know." You may find that, after a while, the not knowing feels a little less tight, a little more spacious.

After a few minutes, let go of the situation and return to simply sitting with the breath. Before you finish, notice how you feel. Then open your eyes fully and return to your day.

If at any point the practice brings up strong distress, stop, open your eyes, look around and return to something comforting. It is fine to try again another time with a lighter situation.

Questions People Often Ask

"Is not knowing the same as not caring?" No. In fact, people who can tolerate not knowing are often able to care more fully, because they are not paralysed by worry or rushing to false conclusions. Sun-hee cared deeply about her son, and her willingness not to know allowed her to support him better. Not knowing is about openness, not indifference.

"Should I stop making plans?" No. Planning is useful and often necessary. The point is to make reasonable plans where you can, and then to stop trying to control what cannot be controlled. A good plan is made with awareness that the future is uncertain and may require changes. Don't-know mind and sensible planning can work together.

"What if I can never get used to uncertainty?" Most people find uncertainty uncomfortable, and that is normal. You do not need to love it. But with practice, many people find they can live with it more calmly than before. If uncertainty and worry are causing you great distress or affecting your daily life, it can help to talk with a doctor or a qualified professional, who can offer support suited to you.

Chapter Summary

Many of us find not knowing very uncomfortable and try to escape it by searching, guessing and worrying. Zen treats not knowing as a doorway. In the first case of the Blue Cliff Record, Bodhidharma answers the emperor's question "Who is standing before me?" with "I do not know". In the Book of Equanimity, Dizang tells Fayan that "not knowing is most intimate".

Koans are short stories and questions used in some Zen schools to unsettle fixed ways of thinking, not riddles to be solved by logic. The rush to know comes partly from an old sensitivity to uncertainty, and it can lead to exhaustion and premature answers. Don't-know mind is an open, curious attitude that can be practised in conversation, in caring for others, in decisions and in daily life.

When not knowing is frightening, coming back to what we do know, feeling the fear in the body, doing what can be done and seeking human support all help. In the next chapter, we look at how Zen practice can help us meet strong feelings when they rise like waves.