The Myth of Certainty



He said he would be able to save me

and I counted on him for that.

I thought he was sure

of where he was going and sure

of how to get there from here,

sure of where the old home was

and where to buy and build the new;

sure of how to bring wood,

wire, tile and all the right fasteners,

which room would be his

and mine,

which food to buy, which to kill,

which child would carry the bow

on the hunt, which the arrows,

how much land we would traverse to the kill,

what kind of trees we’d pass,

and what markings we’d leave

where there was no path.

I was sure he knew.

It never once occurred to me

that if I could be so sure of him,

I could just be sure.



Blaise Pascal said it best:  It’s not certain that everything is uncertain.”  It’s true.  There is nothing but mystery.  And even that is mysterious. My surety comes from standing inside of myself.  That turf, that terrain is all I can know.  And I know that through the braille of uncertainty that fingers my insides until it finds something real.  What we have, what we can own is the essence of our own being. There simply is nothing else.  And certainly nothing else we can own.

© 2014 Andrea Mathews


Is that a castle?

Is it…is that a castle?

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