In Praise Of The Unknown

In Praise Of The Unknown

 “In the beginners mind there are many possibilities. In the expert’s mind there are few.” – D.T. Suzuki

 “One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” – J. Krishnamurti

 Far too often, philosophers are obsessed with finding the answer to questions because they feel something dreadful might happen in the realm of the unknown.

 One of my teachers in College, for instance, wore his knowledge around like a cloak to cover up the fact that, deep down, he did not know. Unfortunately, in many instances, knowledge is used in this sense—to cover up the silence that is best left alone and which doesn’t need explanations or answers to begin with.

 There are, of course, exceptions to this, but in general, a philosopher is someone who is learned in philosophy. And while it would be silly to call someone a philosopher if they do not know certain answers to crucial questions, the desire to know—or be learned—has caused many of them to utilize questions in a one-dimensional manner.

 Let us suppose a philosopher is well-versed in Hegel’s philosophy. I would expect her to know the answer to the question, “What is the Hegelian Dialectic?”, but let us then suppose I ask another question that is extremely difficult to give a valid and universal answer to, such as, “Who am I?” 

 Last night, while I was dreaming away through the vast realms of consciousness, this question came storming through. It appeared —like all thoughts—from nowhere. And I had absolutely no control over the power with which it gripped me. Without willing it into existence, the question arrested me for a moment, shun some beautiful light, and without saying goodbye, vanished.  

 It struck me so profoundly, in fact, that it caused me to get out of bed and walk back and forth like a deranged scientist. For I was not quite sure what to do with it. It was a lightning strike, a whip of wisdom—too grandiose to comprehend, too sacred to grab hold of.

 Of course, I could have answered the question in a conventional sort of way. I could have told myself that I am someone who has this or that and has achieved such and such. I could have told myself that I am a man with this skill, who was born on this day at this time. But all of these answers would only scratch the surface of the slippery depths and cover the totality of things with relative truths that are uninteresting and boring.

 Attempting to answer it in the regular sort of way would have been, I felt, a disgrace to the unknown, unseen order of reality. If I am being completely and utterly honest with myself, I have no idea who I really am, for I have always felt that my true identity is tathata—suchness. No definition from thought is capable of capturing the vastness of myself. So instead, I left the question to linger in my consciousness and steep in my mind with hopes that something else would answer me.  

 In many ways, it was a prayer pointing to the transcendental. After I cast it into the heavens, I took no responsibility for the damage it might do. A part of me knew that such a question may not have an answer, but that part of me was excited; it felt that some wholeness may swallow me up.  

 After all, the most powerful, life-giving questions do not have answers; they are the gateway to places where none need to exist. They hurl us into the abyss and force us to bow down to what we do not know. They humble us by not giving us what we want so that we may get what we need.

 If a question does not take away our toys, that is, if it doesn’t take away the mind’s incessant urge to define, fix and sort, it is not powerful enough—at least for the purposes of scouring our true, uncategorizable identity.

 In the words of the great poet, Shams Tabriz, “The intellect takes you to the door, but it doesn’t take you into the house.”

 The life of the great Indian saint, Ramana Maharshi, is the perfect example of what I am trying to demonstrate here. When he visited his uncle’s house, he was so overcome with the fear of death that he asked himself this question: “Now death has come; what does it mean?” This question is different in content from “Who am I?” but not in quality. Both of them are aimed toward some eternal source, which cannot be captured or known by the regular faculties of the mind.

 What followed from that question led to the death of his finite self and resulted in the birth of his infinite Self.

 The place from which Ramana asked that question, and the sheer desperation and curiosity that flooded over him to surrender into it, took him into the “house.” From there, no questions and answers were needed. He then packed up his bags and left to the great mountain of Arunachala to begin his life as one of the most prolific spiritual teachers.

 Maharshi inquired about death from a place of deep humility and honor toward the unknown, toward what he did not know. The reason why the question was so powerful was precisely because he did not know the answer.

 As philosophers, seekers, and spiritual explorers, this is something to keep in mind—and something that will always humble us in the best of ways. In the words of William Blake: “In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between there are doors.” My hope is that, after reading this, perhaps you will knock on the door of the unknown by asking a question that is slightly uncomfortable but useful nonetheless. You never know what—or who—will meet you on the other side.