Today, I got down on my knees and did something I’m slightly ashamed to say… I haven’t done in a very       long time.

I cleaned all the floors in my house.
I scrubbed the corners of the bathrooms, the places that no one sees until they look too closely.
I scoured the kitchen, edge to edge.

It is a privilege (under normal circumstances) to be able to outsource this work.
At the same time, it was on my knees that felt right on this day.

On one’s knees there is humility. It’s the way we pray; it’s where we play with our babies, and where we come to understand what vulnerability really means. It’s often where we cry.

There’s something about being close to the ground, the earth. The act of lowering our bodies also lowers our walls, our egos, our pride.

Once, when I was in India, I saw something that I still think of often.

I was sitting in the courtyard of a shrine, an open square surrounded by an ancient wall whose center housed a divine Hindi god. There are hundreds like them.

Thousands of people, of all socioeconomic groups, were making their way in and out. The very, very poor – shoeless, toothless, penniless – stood alongside the very rich, with expensive watches and waiting drivers. Some were moving slowly, others in a rush. Worship, in India is a daily devotional practice – a stop on the way to work as much as a holy family outing.

I watched as throngs of people poured out of every doorway, walking briskly past the others who had prostrated themselves in front of the structure itself – some, kneeling, noses down, others laid out on their bellies, arms outstretched in supplication. This chaotic scene plays out often there – to the curiosity of Westerners who can’t imagine ourselves face down in our own sacred venues – which might be church for some, or a concert for others.

A young man, maybe 20-years old, in his rush to leave, inadvertently stepped on the arm of an elder woman still in the process of worship. With her face down buried into the stone, she most certainly felt the injury – it was the full weight of his body on her frail wrist. But she didn’t move.

Realizing his miscalculation in space, he quickly turned back to her, and without registering a second of contemplation – he got down on his knees, and kissed both souls of her aged, bare, blackened feet. As quickly as he had knelt, I was no sooner looking at the back of his checked shirt, pushing the turn style to leave.

She never looked up.
And he never turned to see if she did.

What will it take for us…to get here?
To feel this sense of connectedness?

Something passed between them, yet no thanks was given, no validation sought. But humanity, nonetheless, was undeniably present. The act itself, of course, transcended all practical precaution for hygiene, a behavior that has become part of our daily consciousness at this moment – a practice that could (in fact) determine life or death.

But even at that moment, it wasn’t the act itself I hoped to replicate, but more that such instinctual reverence for a complete stranger could be second nature… that seemed worth emulating.

I chose my knees today because I think it was the only place that matched my emotional hillside.

It was devotion.
It was humility.
It was surrender.

I can’t remember the last time…I had time.
When I wasn’t in a hurry.
When I wasn’t doing two, three, even four things – at once.

This is unprecedented. Perhaps even sacred.

Strangely, I’m now beginning to realize how upset I’ve been at never having enough…
Hours…..Space…..Width…..Depth.

We, as a culture, know so little about staying in one place. About settling in. About being quiet, within the quiet, in the soft corners of our interiors. We talk about it. But how much do we embody it?

Our footprints are on everything, even while we talk about stillness.
Our minds are everywhere, even as we preach about mindfulness.

Yet, there are some of us – many of us I’m learning – who see the gift in this (undoubtedly) finite moment.

We are doing things we haven’t had time to do in years. Our schedules are empty, and one thing doesn’t have to be sacrificed for another, because the day just got a lot longer. We aren’t checking the box, we’re climbing out of it – even as we’re confined to it. For the first time in a long while, we can hear ourselves think. Yes, the thoughts are scary, uncertain, confronting and even bleak at times. We see suffering, and fear.

But somewhere, deep inside, is that relief I also feel?

A regeneration is happening.

What can we learn?
What can be birthed – in all this space?
What closure – within us, around us – has been forced, that needs to
take hold?

I hope this time can and will mean something. Because unequivocally, we are getting a message, if we’re willing to hear it.

Could this be the beginning of everything that needs to be next?

I’m going to let it come.
And then, let it roar.
I want to be ready for something precious and bold.

I want this to be the time…
we didn’t go back to that.

We have some change to make.

PS in case you missed it, check out our last post, Uncertainty.

At the root of most anxiety is the unknown. I’m feeling a lot of this lately.

What if… ?

Then what?

And why?

Our ability to cope with what is not yet known ends up defining so much of who we are, how we behave, the decisions we make, and how we impact those around us.

Chronic worriers tend to operate with fear – and (think they) can control it through intense relationships to time, scheduling, details or even schadenfreude.

Other types think in terms of the worst-case scenario. A nagging pain becomes a terminal disease, a bad month turns into a prediction of a bad year, an unreturned call appears like an omen of disinterest/failure/rejection.

But low-grade anxiety is something that operates at a different frequency, is easier to mask, and is universal. It often feels like a shadow lurking nearby. We keep it at bay with plenty of distractions – staying busy being at the top of the list, followed by addictions across a wide spectrum, from alcohol to sex, shopping, exercise, parenting or health. Anything that creates an environment where the shadow can remain nameless qualifies. This is how much we avoid the realm of the unknown.

Technology lets us know a lot about the future – from impending weather to DNA – and allows us to mitigate what we can. But we still can’t predict the majority of things that would really matter, beyond right now. That’s a fragile feeling.

This blog was written three years ago. All of my writings are inspired by the observations I have at any given time. I don’t know what it was that inspired this post, at that time – but I don’t think it matters. Why? Because uncertainty is nothing new – it’s just that it has an illusory quality, so it can appear that way. We are always living with terms we don’t know, timelines we can’t see and weaknesses that have yet to be revealed. The illusion is that we have control. But, in moments like this, we get a clearer picture of what we can (and should) control, and most definitely what we can’t.

So maybe the real measure of success is our ability to expand our capacity for uncertainty, and through that exercise, be more comfortable in the unknowable.

Considering the state of the world, I’m not sure we have a choice.