"It is what it is."

I have a friend who uses the above comment almost like a mantra. At some point in discussion -- perhaps when all the options have been explored or all the feelings have been expressed -- she'll utter these words. Sometimes, she says them in the face of things mundane: a broken heel, beef-n-chocolate stew that doesn't come out just right, a papercut. Other times, she says it in the face of things tragic: divorce, betrayal, a lackluster sex life (mine).

It's a good catch-all, and I have for many years had my own version of it: Life just is.

Either way, we're both getting to the same point. Shit happens, and there's not necessarily a reason for it. For better or worse, you deal with whatever happens. You accept and let go of stuff. You seek understanding of what's immutable, what's possible and what's feasible. But ultimately, you do what you can and you get on with your damn self.

This is what I'm aiming for, anyway.

I can't judge how successful my friend is in this venture, but I can tell you that I'm pretty poor at it.

I get caught up with expectations of fairness in the face of injustice, the belief that I deserve a life as full and rich as the fullest and richest lives known to history, the yearning for (and not really having) a family. They're all good and worthy causes, but the gap between my desires and my reality is often a source of great pain.

To complicate matters, I have a tendency to fight both the expectation and the pain. It is tiresome to fight with myself like this -- if for no other reason than that I am a formidable opponent. (I'm not just a gifted thinker, I'm gifted with hubris!)

The other night in Ethics class, we were asked to introduce ourselves by selecting two cards (one an image of an animal, the other a single word) from a table -- everyone trying to snatch their cards at the same time -- and by writing some kind of intention for ourselves, which we were asked to share with the class (if we wanted).

I think most of you Fair Readers can tell by now that I'm not shy. I will share my thoughts. Relentlessly so at times.

But the other night in class, I didn't feel like sharing.

Lurking around the table, watching attractive animals and words being snatched up, I surprised myself by picking up a picture of an otter. There was a word above the otter's head. It said, "Surrender." I also picked up a card printed only with the word "Confident."

I sat down in my seat and looked at the two cards. What intention might I write?

Eventually, I shared this with the class: Let go of the reigns; trust the horse.

This is what I will share with the rest of you: Looking at these two words -- "confidence" and "surrender" -- together, I was struck with just how much confidence and courage it takes to surrender, to relinquish control. I like to believe I'm in control, even when I know I'm not.

Recently, I had an experience that has started to unhinge my worldview, the powerful anchor by which I keep myself latched to a place of reason and the perspective from which I can gauge any adjustments I make in how I conceptualize the world and life itself. (I won't be sharing the details of this experience right now because it's too personal and too fresh for this blog.)

I have long been aware that there are multiple realities. I regard this not just as a statement of philosophy and perspective, but understand it to be a well-established scientific theory, as well. My personal reality has varied manifestations, based on illness, intoxication, exhaustion, sleep or waking state, dreams. But they remain the perspective and experience of a single individual.

I still hold that to be true. My experiences are unique; my combination of filters and physiology and my location on the space-time continuum can't be reproduced and are inherently unknowable by another. Thus, there is no "right," there is no "truth," there are no "facts." There are only ideas and opinions and theories.

And yet, even within that construct, I am being deeply challenged to consider just how much I did not know, do not understand and will never grasp. I have had one of my most cherished interpretations of the world pulled out from beneath my feet, and I am tumbling into unknown territory.

My initial reaction was to explain my experience away in terms of science and psychology and the susceptibility of a tired and grieving mind. But I couldn't manage it. Not only were other explanations insufficient, they seemed insulting. They demeaned the experience I had, as well as my very life -- to the reason I persist, to the meaning of my love for myself and others, to the honor and respect of those who have loved me.

And, most especially, explaining it away through scientific posturing -- and posturing is *all* it would be -- seemed a grotesque violation of the notion about this world that I cherish most dearly:

That of the unending unknowing.

Some nights lately, when I have been trying to sleep, I find my mind spinning in incomprehension. How do I rewrite my understanding? Just where is my worldview shifting?

I get impatient to lay down new ink; I want the newest edition drafted and on its way to the publisher.

It occurs to me in such moments that I need to hold on to my own sense of confidence while also allowing myself the permission to surrender to the mystery. I have also learned that my own mantra -- Life just is. -- doesn't quite work in this situation. It doesn't help me get to sleep.

However, needing sleep, especially lately, I have found my friend's mantra more helpful: "It is what it is."

And you know what? It *is.*