Your mom is speaking now, in a voice so faint and raspy it’s almost inaudible. But she manages to get her points across. She says she doesn’t remember how she disappeared. The last thing she remembers is being in her office, hearing a rumbling sound outside, and stepping out to investigate. She didn’t think anything was wrong, she was just curious about the noise and didn’t want to miss anything.
She keeps asking about you, as if I might actually have news. This makes no sense as we’ve heard nothing from you since before the SUCs occurred. I don’t know why your mother thinks you’d be suddenly concerned about us enough to reach out and let us know you’re alive.
The Zen approach is to be okay with not knowing all the answers; I heard you describe that philosophy on one of your recordings. But as a scientist, for me the state of “not knowing” isn’t something to passively accept. It’s meant to be outgrown by applying tested methodology. In the scientific process, one follows a series of simple, reasonable steps. The entire field of science is built on the concept that the scientist pursues the paths with potential to lead out of the morass of “not knowing,” proceeding forward to the destination of knowing.
The idea of never learning what happened to Jane is unacceptable. As is the possibility of going a lifetime without knowing whether you’ve been blown off the face of the planet or are out there somewhere, sipping green tea between sessions of chanting, chatting with your brother monks.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.