I do not understand
anything I see in this room.

This one is humbling.

Because I walk around most days pretty convinced that I understand what I’m looking at.

I know what that look meant. I know why she said that. I know what he’s going to do next. I know what this setback means. I know why I’m upset. I know who’s right. I know what needs to happen for me to feel better.

I have explanations for almost everything.

And if I don’t have one, give me a few minutes. My mind will come up with something.

That’s what makes this lesson uncomfortable. It asks me to consider that maybe I don’t understand nearly as much as I think I do.

Not because I’m stupid. Not because I can’t make reasonable judgments or deal with practical reality. I think it’s more about noticing how much of my “understanding” is built out of old information.

I see today through yesterday.

That person isn’t just the person standing in front of me. She’s also every conversation we’ve had, every disappointment I remember, every expectation I have of her, and whatever I’m afraid she might do next.

So when she says something, I’m rarely hearing only what she said.

I’m hearing history.

And some days, history has excellent hearing.

I can see this in relationships especially. My husband says, “Are you okay?” and depending on the day, I may hear concern. Or criticism. Or What’s wrong with you now? Same words. Completely different experience.

Which one did he mean?

Maybe I know.

But sometimes I really don’t.

And that little admission — maybe I don’t know — can be strangely difficult.

There’s a part of me that likes knowing. Knowing feels safer. If I know why someone did something, then I know how to respond. If I know what a situation means, I can prepare myself. If I decide the ending early enough, maybe I won’t be surprised.

The problem is that I can be very certain and very wrong.

I’ve worried myself sick over things that never happened. I’ve assumed someone was upset with me when they were distracted by something that had absolutely nothing to do with me. I’ve thought something was a disaster and later been grateful it didn’t work out the way I wanted.

And, unfortunately, I’ve also been absolutely sure I understood someone else’s motives when what I really understood was my own fear.

That one stings a little.

Because it’s easy to say, “I know why she did that.”

It’s harder to say, “I know what her behavior brought up in me. I’m less certain about the rest.”

But that second sentence is probably more honest.

I think this is where the lesson becomes useful in ordinary life.

Someone is distant.

My first thought might be, She’s pulling away from me.

Maybe.

Or maybe she’s exhausted. Maybe something else is happening. Maybe I’m picking up on something real but adding three chapters that haven’t happened yet.

My child makes a choice I don’t like, and I immediately think, This is going to end badly.

Do I actually know that?

Or am I looking at one moment and trying to turn it into the whole future?

I hit an obstacle at work and think, This isn’t working.

Maybe it isn’t.

Or maybe I just don’t understand what this particular moment is yet.

That’s the part I want to practice: leaving a little room around what I think I know.

Not becoming passive. Not ignoring obvious facts. Not talking myself out of my instincts every five minutes.

Just loosening my grip on the story enough to admit that my first interpretation might not contain the whole truth.

Because, if I’m honest, sometimes I don’t even fully understand my own reactions.

I think I’m angry, but underneath it I’m hurt.

I think I’m upset about what someone said, but really I’m afraid of what I decided it means.

I think I need an apology, when what I really want is reassurance that I still matter.

The mind can be complicated like that.

So maybe “I don’t understand” isn’t a failure.

Maybe it’s an opening.

There’s something softer about approaching a situation with I may not understand this yet instead of arriving with the verdict already written.

It gives the other person a little room.

It gives life a little room.

Mostly, it gives me a little room.

So if something gets under my skin today, I want to notice how quickly I move into certainty.

I know what this means.

I know why she did that.

I know how this is going to turn out.

Not in a sarcastic way. Not as another reason to distrust myself.

Just honestly.

Maybe I do know some things.

And maybe there are parts I’ve filled in because uncertainty makes me nervous.

I don’t need to solve that today. I don’t even need a better explanation.

Maybe, for a moment, I can simply stop pretending I understand everything.

Which, now that I think about it, might be a relief.

That’s probably enough for today.