I Like Not Knowing

What do you believe in, then, if you believe in nothing?

It’s an question I’m content in saying, “I don’t know” to, time and time, again.

I don’t know what’s real and I don’t know what isn’t.

One day I could wake and this life I’ve built, this man I love, and these children we created never existed.

I don’t know if there is or isn’t a god of some kind.

So far I’m not convinced.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

I’m over thirty and I just don’t know. I like a lot of things, refuse to do some things, can’t do other things, and I’m okay with that.

I don’t know if having kids was the best decision for me.

Granted there was no decision about it (apparently I was immune to birth control—figured out by birth control failure baby number three), but I can’t imagine my life without them, and I won’t ever stop trying to be and do better for them.

I don’t know if moving to Seattle and leaving our home in Florida is going to be wise for us.

I’m worried we’re making the wrong choice, but when I have to stay indoors, away from the sun and the heat, I realize there can’t be any “wrong” in leaving— just where we’re going.

I don’t know.

And I’m okay with not knowing.

I like not knowing.

For someone who needs to plan in detail for most everything, not knowing about the future—about anything — is oddly serene.