Certainty is the Enemy of Growth

Certainty is a lockbox without a key.  

It keeps you hidden, dust-coated, safe—  

but safe like a bird in a cage,  

wings folding inward, spine pressed still,  

forgetting the memory of sky.  

We were not made for walls,  

not carved for the edges of answers.  

Our bodies hum with questions,  

the kind that sprout roots and wildflowers.  

Growth is the cracking open of husks,  

the splintering of what we think  

we understand.  

I’ve seen how storms rearrange rivers,  

how rivers reshape pieces of earth.  

Nothing smooth and strong ever stayed  

by clinging to what couldn’t move.  

If certainty is a fortress,  

then let courage be the pickaxe,  

let wonder become the open field.  

Do not fear the hollowness of "I don’t know,"  

it’s where sunlight first slips in.