I was certain that Donald Trump would never be elected. “Él es un payaso,” (He is a clown) I explained to my server in Mexico back in late 2015 with a casual wave of my hand. My server maintained a worried expression. His family was in the U.S. and what Trump was saying then was a direct threat. One that became a reality.
I owe that man an apology. Since I’m not likely to see him again, I’ll do it here. I hereby declare this age the Death of Certainty. Humbly, it also applies to my own.
In four years we watched everything we were certain of dissolve like the smoke it actually is. In the final year, the chaos leapt across the oceans and swept in a deafening crescendo. None of us could have known this would happen. No one of us could have prevented it either. So why so much conjecture?
A bit of yogic wisdom says that our personal choices account for just one-third of the outcomes of life. We must contend with the uncontrollable actions of others and the unseeable actions of the divine. Knowing this, certainty makes a terrible life raft.
Humility floats. Let’s stop sinking.
