The Practice of Not Knowing

There is a time each year when the season changes, but nothing looks changed yet.
The air softens, then turns cold again.
The sun lingers a little longer, yet the trees remain bare.

March lives in this in-between — and very often, so does healing.

When we hear the word practice, we imagine repetition — doing something again and again until it becomes clearer, smoother, almost effortless. In movement, in Reiki, in any skill, we trust refinement will appear if we continue long enough.

We practice because we believe something will eventually make sense. But the other half of the phrase — not knowing — asks something different.
Not knowing is not a technique. It is an experience.

It touches the part of us that cannot predict or guarantee an outcome. In that space emotions arise easily — anxiety, hesitation, restlessness. The mind searches for certainty because certainty feels safe. So while we practice hoping for clarity, we meet uncertainty.
This is where many people quietly stop trusting their process:
Is anything happening?
Am I doing this right?

The body does not change in conclusions. It reorganizes the way winter melts — unevenly, gradually, often invisibly. In winter, nature gathers energy inward. Trees do not resist the cold by growing faster; they become still. Beneath the surface, life is preserved, not displayed.

We do something similar in healing.
We conserve energy.
We turn inward.
We tolerate quieter days.

Then March arrives — not yet spring, but no longer winter. This is where practice becomes patience. To practice not knowing is to allow uncertainty without forcing an answer. We are not eliminating discomfort; we are staying present while it softens.

When a sensation appears — warmth, heaviness, tightness, ease — pause before explaining it.
Instead of asking what it means, notice:
Where is it?
Does it move or stay?
Is it cool or warm?
Does your breathing change around it?
Nothing needs to happen next.

Sometimes the practice appears as a question.
We often ask questions to get answers, but some questions are openings rather than conclusions:
What am I feeling right now?
What changed slightly today?
What do I need in this moment?
Over time, the question guides us toward knowing — not as information, but as recognition.

We learn a gentle skill: not every question requires an immediate answer.
By allowing the question to remain, we are kind to the unknown and to ourselves. Curiosity unfolds when it is not pressured to conclude.
Hope lives here — not the hope that everything turns out exactly as we want, but the quieter hope that life continues unfolding even when we cannot yet see how.

We keep our routines.
We get up in the morning.
We participate in our days while much remains unknown.

Spring does not arrive because we forced it. It arrives because we stayed. By the time clarity appears, the change has already been living inside us for a while. Next month, we will begin noticing the small signs of life quietly forming underneath this uncertainty.

With gratitude,
Mandy

Reiki • Somatic Movement • Pilates • Yoga