Who Would We Be Without Our Answers?

In a world that rewards certainty and quick answers, we often wear our knowledge like armour, closing ourselves off from the deeper mysteries of life. This contemplative reflection invites you to leave behind the "hamster wheel" of the mind and enter the "modern monastery" of a silent walk. Through the imagery of a late spring wetland, we explore what it means to stop rushing toward solutions and instead learn to "live the questions" as Rainer Maria Rilke suggested. By turning our attention toward the quiet rhythms of the body and the land, we find the courage to wait for the slow unfolding of our own inner truths.

Transcript

Who would we be without our answers? Living into the answer through the body and the land. Someone once suggested that the modern monastery might be found in the quiet of a solitary walk, Free from distraction. I have always enjoyed walking with a podcast in my ears. But after hearing this, I began to leave my headphones behind. Now, Each day, I find myself returning to the wetlands near my home, Walking for an hour in silence. Where I live, Spring comes quite late. Only recently has the snow melted, The ground thawed, And the birds started to return. Even still, The air in the morning is brisk, And the winds whip north to south across the water. As I walk, I try to learn the intricacies of the land. I notice the red-winged blackbirds perched on the swaying cattails. I listen to the sound of the ducks as they claim their nest and their mate for the season. I observe how each grackle keeps to its own aspen tree, Each being the king or queen of their own castle. And I hear the geese's call as they encourage their mates to join them. Each time I venture out, I notice something new. A new birdsong, A new plant, A new tree. Most of the trees are still in dormancy. When I come across one I don't yet know, I research the species it belongs to. These days, However, It is often unclear because the leaves have not yet bloomed. I won't actually know for another couple of weeks. And so I wait, Holding on to my curiosity until the answer slowly presents itself. In a world where answers are always within reach, It is easy to feel uneasy about what we do not know. We wear our knowledge like armor, Using it as a shield to deflect questions with an air of bravado and confidence that closes us off from one another. Yet we are drawn to the curiosity and wonder of children. When something puzzles them, They simply ask, Why? At first it may seem like a request for information, But if we listen more closely, We notice that their questions are invitations to connection. Each why opens a space for relationship, For presence. Answers may close the conversation, But curiosity keeps it alive. In his letters to a young poet, Rainer Maria Rilke encourages us to be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. He advises us not to seek answers that cannot yet be given, But to live the questions. Without noticing, We live ourselves into the answer. So often we find ourselves awake in the night, Staring at the dark ceiling, Wishing we knew what to do, What to say. But perhaps the invitation is not to rush towards answers, But to rest in the deeper questions. Living with the questions may invite us to lean into the mystery, To release our grip on certainty and allow life to unfold. When I close my eyes and become still, I notice the sounds that gather around me, Both distance and near. I feel the heavy hum behind my eyes and the light tingling in my palms. I notice the quiet rhythm of my heart in my chest. In the silence, I begin to sense what is true within me. Each day as I return to the wetlands, I witness a slow unfolding. Unapologetically, The bare branches begin to awaken with green buds, Stirred by the gentle warmth of the sun, Trusting what is already held within. The scent of earth rises as it emerges from winter's rest. Across the water, Birds offer their songs to the day. I lift my face to the sky and offer thanks for this moment. With warmth and gratitude, Brooke.