I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand what’s happening here. I’m confused. If I go this way, this happens…if I go that way, I don’t KNOW what happens. I’m lost—I’m foggy—I’m confused.

From where does our sense of clarity come from? When we just KNOW, how do we just know? And what the heck is going on with confusion?

One of my teachers was patiently and lovingly listening as I fumbled with my words, mind all a fog, lamenting about my confusion. And then BAM—-

You’re not confused. You just don’t want to feel the sorrow. Feel the sorrow and you’ll stop feeling confused.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade right? Unless you’re making a cheese cake and you’re like “wtf am I supposed to do with these?” Confused. Confusion steps in when we don’t want to choose. When our options are ‘shitty’ and ‘shittier’. Is confusion actually an emotion? No. It’s more an experience of the jumble of emotion, of competition in the heart or the mind. It’s the experience of a form of resistance to experiencing the fullness of those emotions.

When I say I’m confused, I can always feel truth lurking. There it is, usually all wrapped up in consequences and dark feelings. There’s anger there. There’s grief there. There’s the deepest pond of sorrow you could ever imagine and the confusion keeps me from falling in. But in tumbling down, looking straight into the face of what I most want to skate away from, there is clarity. And relief. When I feel confused, there is always a deeper, truer part of who I am begging to just get on with it already.