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Posted: July 12th, 2007 at 1:39am By: Adele Ryan McDowell
Have you ever been asked a question to which you have no answer? More than likely, you respond simply with your basic, all-purpose, one-size-fits-all "I don't know." These three words say it all. Or so you think.
No sooner do you say "I don't know," than you can find yourself on the receiving end of a barrage of questions. The curious, the related and the relentless can pursue your non-answer with a variety of creative end-runs; all in the hopes of having you fill in the blanks and connect the dots.
"I don't know" rarely serves as a full stop. It seems to be more like the color red in front of a bull; it incites a bit of a chase.
Cultural anthropologist Angeles Arrien speaks of universal addictions, one of which is the need to know. How often have we persistently and insistently badgered someone to give us an answer, any answer, because "I don't know" just doesn't cut it?
For some, the I-don't-know response can be maddening. It's akin to having the door closed in your face. Like Elvis, the respondent has left the building. You feel as if you are standing there alone with a cold wind circling your nether regions. The conversational plug has been pulled. There is no more juice for further badinage.
You begin to wonder. You are not thinking kindly. You have begun to seriously question the motivation and/or the mental competency of the don't-knower. Is the don't-knower being evasive, coy, avoidant, rude, difficult, deflecting, passive-aggressive or mentally stagnant?
Clearly, the don't-knower has refused to belly up to the conversational bar. There is no longer parity; mutuality is threatened. What is a questioner to do?
Angeles Arrien says that the cure for this need-to-know addiction is trust. That's right, trust.
In other words, if we don't know every excruciating detail, can we accept that the world will continue to turn on its axis and our life is not necessarily in danger? If the map is not annotated with every curve in the road, can we make our destination in one piece? Must we know every nuance, facet and element of our lives (and, perhaps, everyone else's) in order to feel safe and in control?
I used to think so. I liked being in the driver's seat. I was master of my destiny and captain of my fate. I had my trusty map, my cup of tea and a sense of well-being as I headed in a firmly decided direction. The wind blowing in my hair and the radio cranked on high; I was a woman with a plan. Life doesn't get much sweeter than that, all puffed up with purpose.
I was feeling swell; I was on fire with my self-assigned mission. And then, it all fizzled out with a sizzle and a clunk. The motor sputtered to a sickening halt, the tea spilled in my lap and the radio turned to static. This was not part of my plan.
"Mother of God," I wailed. And there I was in the cloud bank of unknowing with nary a thought as to what to do next. I was at a dead stop.
Hanging out in the never-never land of amorphous nothingness, ironically, brings you some clarity. You realize that you are powerless in that great mythic, person vs. gods kind of way. And as much as I like to organize, strategize and sit in the catbird's seat, the Big Mapmaker had other plans for me.
So, here I am, a few weeks away from closing my psychotherapy practice. I am asked regularly, "What are you going to do next?" I mention a trip that is planned and writing this column. And they look at me patiently, thinking that perhaps the real reason I am closing up shop is that my marbles have been misplaced. And they ask, again, "What are you going to do next professionally?"
At first, I kind of mumbled my I-don't-knows. I was embarrassed. I felt stupid and ill-prepared. This was not the way I wanted to be remembered. I was the woman ever equipped with a handful of good ideas. Where was my sure-footed practicality, my cognitive-behavioral repertoire or, at the very least, my game plan?
I don't know. I simply don't know.
It has taken some time, but I have come to relish those three words. They have humbled me. I am reminded that I am not in control of the universe. I do not own the Universal Remote. "I don't know" is liberating, if I can relax my shoulders, unclench my jaw and stop twirling my hair.
In that humbling, I have been reminded of my humanness. No surprise that the very word "humble" is derived from humus, the organic part of the soil that is made from all the decomposed remains of plants and animals.
And, as a human, I can choose to stop and listen and allow the Big Mapmaker to have a say. She seems to know what she's doing, and I don't have to know all the words or all the ideas or even all the recipes. All I have to do is show up and be open. I think I can do that, if I remember to keep breathing.
This not-knowing feels counterintuitive to my general make-up. I have been a woman with a clipboard in my hand for the majority of my life.
This letting go and working without a net is either just plain nuts or about to be one of the best thrill rides of my life. I am betting on the latter.
— — —
Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.
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Have you ever been asked a question to which you have no answer? More than likely, you respond simply with your basic, all-purpose, one-size-fits-all "I don't know." These three words say it all. Or so you think.
No sooner do you say "I don't know," than you can find yourself on the receiving end of a barrage of questions. The curious, the related and the relentless can pursue your non-answer with a variety of creative end-runs; all in the hopes of having you fill in the blanks and connect the dots.
"I don't know" rarely serves as a full stop. It seems to be more like the color red in front of a bull; it incites a bit of a chase.
Cultural anthropologist Angeles Arrien speaks of universal addictions, one of which is the need to know. How often have we persistently and insistently badgered someone to give us an answer, any answer, because "I don't know" just doesn't cut it?
For some, the I-don't-know response can be maddening. It's akin to having the door closed in your face. Like Elvis, the respondent has left the building. You feel as if you are standing there alone with a cold wind circling your nether regions. The conversational plug has been pulled. There is no more juice for further badinage.
You begin to wonder. You are not thinking kindly. You have begun to seriously question the motivation and/or the mental competency of the don't-knower. Is the don't-knower being evasive, coy, avoidant, rude, difficult, deflecting, passive-aggressive or mentally stagnant?
Clearly, the don't-knower has refused to belly up to the conversational bar. There is no longer parity; mutuality is threatened. What is a questioner to do?
Angeles Arrien says that the cure for this need-to-know addiction is trust. That's right, trust.
In other words, if we don't know every excruciating detail, can we accept that the world will continue to turn on its axis and our life is not necessarily in danger? If the map is not annotated with every curve in the road, can we make our destination in one piece? Must we know every nuance, facet and element of our lives (and, perhaps, everyone else's) in order to feel safe and in control?
I used to think so. I liked being in the driver's seat. I was master of my destiny and captain of my fate. I had my trusty map, my cup of tea and a sense of well-being as I headed in a firmly decided direction. The wind blowing in my hair and the radio cranked on high; I was a woman with a plan. Life doesn't get much sweeter than that, all puffed up with purpose.
I was feeling swell; I was on fire with my self-assigned mission. And then, it all fizzled out with a sizzle and a clunk. The motor sputtered to a sickening halt, the tea spilled in my lap and the radio turned to static. This was not part of my plan.
"Mother of God," I wailed. And there I was in the cloud bank of unknowing with nary a thought as to what to do next. I was at a dead stop.
Hanging out in the never-never land of amorphous nothingness, ironically, brings you some clarity. You realize that you are powerless in that great mythic, person vs. gods kind of way. And as much as I like to organize, strategize and sit in the catbird's seat, the Big Mapmaker had other plans for me.
So, here I am, a few weeks away from closing my psychotherapy practice. I am asked regularly, "What are you going to do next?" I mention a trip that is planned and writing this column. And they look at me patiently, thinking that perhaps the real reason I am closing up shop is that my marbles have been misplaced. And they ask, again, "What are you going to do next professionally?"
At first, I kind of mumbled my I-don't-knows. I was embarrassed. I felt stupid and ill-prepared. This was not the way I wanted to be remembered. I was the woman ever equipped with a handful of good ideas. Where was my sure-footed practicality, my cognitive-behavioral repertoire or, at the very least, my game plan?
I don't know. I simply don't know.
It has taken some time, but I have come to relish those three words. They have humbled me. I am reminded that I am not in control of the universe. I do not own the Universal Remote. "I don't know" is liberating, if I can relax my shoulders, unclench my jaw and stop twirling my hair.
In that humbling, I have been reminded of my humanness. No surprise that the very word "humble" is derived from humus, the organic part of the soil that is made from all the decomposed remains of plants and animals.
And, as a human, I can choose to stop and listen and allow the Big Mapmaker to have a say. She seems to know what she's doing, and I don't have to know all the words or all the ideas or even all the recipes. All I have to do is show up and be open. I think I can do that, if I remember to keep breathing.
This not-knowing feels counterintuitive to my general make-up. I have been a woman with a clipboard in my hand for the majority of my life.
This letting go and working without a net is either just plain nuts or about to be one of the best thrill rides of my life. I am betting on the latter.
— — —
Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.
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