Guided Meditation: The Unfolding Moment; Dharmette: Impermanence (6): Not-Knowing

This is an AI-generated transcript from auto-generated subtitles for the video Guided Meditation: The Unfolding Moment; Impermanence (6): Not-Knowing. It likely contains inaccuracies, especially with speaker attribution if there are multiple speakers.

The following talk was given by Maria Straatmann at Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, CA on April 21, 2026. Please visit the website www.audiodharma.org for more information.

Guided Meditation: The Unfolding Moment

Hello everyone. Welcome to IMC by way of my office. Wherever you are, welcome to this, the unfolding of the experience that we're having now. We have been talking over the last week, and we'll continue this week talking about impermanence^[1]. Impermanence, which only happens right here in this moment. This moment is impermanent.

And so we gather together here to enter into this meditation by arousing certain conditions that favor mindfulness and stillness, and a settling in, a gathering in process, a coming-to-here process. That is meditation.

This doesn't guarantee that our meditation is how we think it will proceed. It will be what it will be. But in the beginning, we have our intention and we have the conditions over which we have some control. Like now, let's enter into this meditative state by settling into a posture that is comfortable and alert. Coming into this body, knowing this body.

Let's begin by allowing the body to be here. By allowing the breath to just do what the breath does. Scanning over our body, we are reminded that this is a bodily experience. So take a deep breath to anchor ourselves in this place, and as we exhale, release our claim on other experiences for this time. Take another deep breath and allow it to expand out.

Settle into the body. Feel yourself in the space. Lower your shoulders. Settle your torso. Feel yourself supported by your seat, the floor, the ground—whatever surface is below you supporting this body. This body that is breathing. Feel the air as it moves in and out of your body.

Having established our intention and the conditions of settling here, let go of trying to make something happen. Let go of concerns about how it's happening, and just see it just as it is. Feel it. Hear it. Let the air move. Feel the air move. That's all. In and out. Gently follow the breath.

...still here. Is the mind moving slowly? Is the mind busy? Is the mind settled? Do I still feel the air moving in my breath? How is it unfolding, this meditation? Am I still here? In this moment. And this one.

There is the immediacy of just this. Just being here. Just breathing the air. Just moving. Just this.

...aware of how it is now. How it is now. Just knowing, just here, just this. Experience the breath, the air moving, the sound striking your ears. Just hearing just this air movement in and out. The rhythm of now.

In this last minute, bring your awareness to this minute, to this moment. Wherever you have kept your awareness, know that it's still unfolding, this moment in this moment. As you get ready to move, know that you're about to move. Notice the moving. See what's happening in this moment. There's the intention, and then there's what happens. Be there for it.

Dharmette: Not-Knowing

Welcome everyone to this moment, to this experience.

Up to now, this series on impermanence has focused on how things change. Things arise; they're here, and they pass away. All experience arises, happens, and passes away. We've considered loss, inconstancy, uncertainty—all features that evoke a kind of feeling of being out of control. "I don't control this," which we don't. They're all feelings of, "I'm reacting to this." A bit of this sense of shifting under our feet, a little uncertainty. We don't know the way to ensure our safety in this moment. We can only intend that.

But then we considered that things are always also arising, that it's not always a case of reacting to something. It's arising. We can see it arising. We can feel that arising. We can hear it arising. And what has arisen has arisen despite what we may have thought or planned.

In the same way, we can lead to another quality of impermanence: that one of not-knowing. Not-knowing sounds a little bit like uncertainty, but also it is an absence of something. This not-knowing, an absence of knowing. It's an empty feeling that has possibility, or it can be scary, not-knowing.

But is it possible that there are advantages to not-knowing? Of course. What are the ways of looking at not-knowing that make us feel easeful, equanimous^[2]? Can we be equanimous in the face of not-knowing?

My object is to point us in the direction of becoming easeful with not-knowing. You know, everybody has a tendency this way or that way. They don't like not-knowing. They want to know where they're going to go. They want to know what the next moment is. But what is the experience of the absence of expectation? The absence of being attached to knowing. Not apathy, just uncertain what's going to happen.

I set it all up, and then what happens? It's the unfolding of the moment. Like a flower bud that just—if you've watched it in slow motion in a video—how it slowly just opens up, and this petal and that petal. Everything is not the same, and each flower opens in a different way.

There's an opening stanza to a poem by Wisława Szymborska^[3] that I want to repeat to you. "Nothing Can Ever Happen Twice" is the name of the poem. Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.

We don't get to have this moment over again. This is it. We really can't know what's going to happen. We may not even know what already happened, being subject to how we are looking at the past, what we are aware of in the moment, what was significant enough to attach itself to our memory, and also subject to all the series of talks that we have to ourselves within our inner dialogue where we explain what's happening to ourselves.

So, I'm reminded of an experience I had on a retreat one time where I became very conscious—I'm going to hold this up here so you can see it—very conscious of the fact that there was nothing in my palm. I was very conscious of the emptiness of my hand and how I felt about that, that it felt like something needed to be there. And I thought, "That's really interesting. It's just an open hand."

So, travel this with me. Hold your hand out with the palm up, and just notice: what is the impression you have of that open hand? What does the empty, open hand conjure in your mind? Craving, loss, grief, the absence of something, uncertainty? It may or may not be important what's located there. In the absence of something located there, does the hand feel like it wants to close? Does it feel comfortable open? How empty is it? Are you aware of the air, the pressure of the air on it, or the movement of air? What does it feel like, the touch of that open hand? Does it conjure something else in your mind? Does it give rise to other thoughts? What's the temperature? Is it tense or relaxed?

If you're not touching it with your other hand and you're just aware of it, close your eyes. Are you more aware of the palm than the fingers? Those sensitive nerves at the end of your fingers that manage and manipulate. Or you may say, "There is no feeling in this open hand. There's nothing." Does that open hand conjure expectation? Supplication? "I'm asking for. I'm hoping for."

If you turn your hand over, does the energy change? It's just a hand. There's nothing in it. Do you feel safer when it's not open? You have a vulnerable side to your hand. What's clear is that we don't know until we look at it. Does it feel more comfortable? I have these little comfort things on my desk. Let me see if I can find one. I have stones. They're just the right size for my palm. This one is cold this morning compared to my palm. And I can feel it sitting there. And the pressure of that feels comforting.

There's no judgment about this hand. It's just what it's doing. I don't have any frustration at not-knowing what's in this hand because I'm just curious about it. Can we be curious about every moment in our lives?

The effects of embracing impermanence allow us to have ease with uncertainty. Freedom from having to be a certain way, either our expectations or someone else's. Freedom from the need to please someone else. If I just let this moment unfold, if I just settle into not-knowing what it's going to do, this not-knowing increases my ability to be present. When I'm aware of not-knowing what's going to happen, "Oh, I'm here because I don't know what's going to happen."

It's useful to cultivate this sense of not-knowing. We sometimes confuse intention with expectation. And so saying that, "I set up my intention and then this is what happens," allows us to not be attached to our intention, to the outcome of our intention. We don't have to extrapolate into the future what's going on now. We don't even have to establish what it means. What's happening now? We can just sit here and rest in not-knowing.

We're not pretending that things don't change. We're not pretending that we can control what happens. We're not saying, "Oh, I know what's going on, so I don't have to be present anymore because I know what's happening. I know what she's going to say. I know what I'm going to say. I know how this is going to unfold. So, I can go off and think about something else." We don't have to execute a strategy for every moment.

Not-knowing resembles non-attachment^[4]. If we don't grab on to something, we don't have to let go of it. If I don't pre-require every moment, I can actually experience every moment. I can let go of the tension of it having to be a certain way.

The mind regularly intervenes in our experience by deciding this is pleasant or unpleasant. "I like this. I don't like this. I want this. I don't want this." That sequence happens very quickly. So one way to cultivate not-knowing is to look at what happens when you say this is pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. That my reaction to what's unfolding now is pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. Watch how what is pleasant changes to unpleasant. How what is unpleasant changes to pleasant. How what is uncertain becomes neutral.

What is uncertain can arrive without an opinion about it. We can literally just be here and see what happens. Experience what's happening in this moment by carefully asking, "What else is here besides all of my preconceived notions about this moment? What's actually happening?" "Oh, despite my intention to have my feet flat on the floor, one foot is over the other." Ah. No judgment. Just notice, what is this body doing in this moment.

So in the spirit of Wisława Szymborska—she's a Polish poet who won a Nobel Prize for her poetry—I'm going to read to you "Life While-You-Wait".

Life While-You-Wait. Performance without rehearsal. Body without alterations. Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it. I have to guess on the spot just what this play is all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living, I can barely keep up with the pace the action demands. I improvise, although I loathe improvisation. I trip at every step over my own ignorance. I can't conceal my hayseed manners. My instincts are for hammy histrionics. Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliates me more. Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back. Stars you'll never get counted. Your character like a raincoat you button on the run. The pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance, or repeat a single Thursday that has passed! But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen. Is it fair, I ask (my voice a little hoarse, since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh, no. I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is. The props are surprisingly precise. The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer. The farthest galaxies have been turned on. Oh, no, there's no question, this must be the premiere. And whatever I do will become forever what I've done.

So, this poem is about the fact that we can't really plan for what's happening now. We are ill-prepared for the privilege of living. There are words and impulses you can't take back. Stars you never get counted. We can't rehearse the days. We can't rehearse the moments. The props are surprisingly precise. The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer. The farthest galaxies have been turned on. Oh no, there's no question. This must be the premiere. And whatever I do will become forever what I've done.

So let this moment be aware for you. May you be aware of this moment and allow it to unfold. Thank you. Thank you whoever put Szymborska's name in the chat.

Goodbye everyone.