What if healing is not found in the answer, but in the willingness to dwell in the unknown?

There are seasons in our lives when clarity evades us. The mind loops, seeking closure. The heart aches for something solid to hold. But there are moments when the only true response is silence. The body sighs. The soul leans in. And we are asked, not to solve, but to stay.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Try to love the questions themselves… Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

This is the path of embodied presence.

My father used to tell me, “Questions are more important than answers.” I think he meant that they live longer, that they stretch us, expand our awareness, and deepen our curiosity. Answers tend to become fixed states, a kind of ending. But questions? They move. They ripple. They invite. Questions keep us alive with movement, creativity, and surprise.

Of course, there is a sacred truth in pausing, of letting stillness bring us into the deep expanse of completion and rest. Yet, questions awaken us to our aliveness. They stir us toward exploration, expression, and the creative life force that pulses through all things. Just look to nature: the stream that shifts shape, carving new edges as it flows. Never the same, always adapting. The Mystery of the Divine is like this too. Ever-changing, yet always present. Invitational. A relational dance.

In my work, and in my own life, I have seen the ache that arises when certainty disappears when relationships rupture, when grief upends us, when the future we imagined dissolves. In those moments, we are offered a choice: contract around fear or soften into curiosity. This choice is not simple. It is not instant. It often requires everything.

The body teaches us how to live the questions. It does not rush. It pulses in rhythm with the seasons. It contracts; it releases. It doesn’t demand a plan. It invites a process. When we listen to sensation, to the breath, to the quiet voice inside that says, “just be here now,” we begin to trust something deeper than thought.

What if we didn’t rush to fix the pain? What if we didn’t demand clarity before choosing our next step? What if the pause was not a punishment, but a passage?

Living the questions means allowing the ache to be there without numbing it. It means greeting the doubt with tenderness. It means staying present to the longing that lives just beneath the anxiety.

I remember a season in my own life where I could not make sense of anything. The betrayal, the rupture, the unraveling of what I thought was safe. No answer would suffice. And so, I stopped asking for one. I began to walk, to breathe, to cry when the tears came. I started noticing how the trees didn’t rush their blooming. How the river curved without knowing where it would end.

Slowly, something shifted. Not a solution, but a space. A widening. A deepening.

In that space, I noticed new rhythms. Invitations. A stirring of purpose not born from control, but from surrender. Not from figuring it all out, but from being fully present in the not-knowing.

To live the questions is not passive. It is a radical act of trust. It is choosing to let the soul lead. To rest in what is, without collapsing into it. To hold space for becoming.

Let us stop rushing our healing. Let us give reverence to the unknown. Let us live the questions with grace, with breath, and with the body as our guide.