“I don’t know”

might be the three most powerful

and talismanic words after:

“I love you.”

They are some of the truest finest words,

though they often get a bad rap,

or are maligned as weak, ineffectual,

lacking in the proper gusto and mettle.

“I don’t know”

is closest to the bones

and universal lore

of truth,

it is wedded to speculation, adrift in the teeming limbo

of deeper mystery—it takes the “I” from its very own statement,

and turns it on its head, giving the egoic self a well-deserved shake-up.

“I don’t know,” despite its discredited reputation,

is the aural equivalent to breathing room,

and the clandestine lover of humility.

“I don’t know,” is also one of those umbrella paradoxes,

in that it opens up to reveal a hidden, deeper knowing,

which is why rain and “I don’t know” get along so famously.

Try saying “I don’t know,” even if you feel absolutely certain

that you do know something, try it as a humble practice,

and give “I don’t know” a chance to grow like the greenest of prayers,

at first along the roof of your mouth, then into the black of your throat,

and before you know it your soul and “I don’t know” might find themselves buddied up,

a real vaudeville song-and-dance team,

and feelizations, which had been blocked off by solid stacks

and walls of knowing, will start to claim resonance

within your natural state

of fathomless being.