My watch said 2am. As I lay alone in the narrow retreat center bed—heart pounding and chest aching—hope vanished and my thoughts descended into despair. Was I going into cardiac arrest?

Dizzy as I was, I wondered if I should stand and wobble to Ed’s room in the men’s area, one excruciatingly long hall away, and break the retreat’s “Noble Silence” to tell him I might (but had not) called the emergency paramedics.

Would I have a fourth, fifth, 100th Takotsubo cardiac episode? Was I having one right then? Given the United States political landscape, did it matter if I lived?  Would I ever run or write again? Would I spend the rest of my days wondering when (if) to call 911?

Was despair my life now?

A few days later, I managed to walk an uneventful quarter-mile to a chapel that overlooked the Little Miami River at the edge of the retreat center. This was the furthest I had walked since a third cardiac episode (“broken-heart syndrome” aka Takotsubo) had landed me in the hospital for my third stay in a year-and-a-half.

My Garmin sports watch said my heart rate was normal, my stress low. I felt calm and strong. I sat in an Adirondack chair allowing my ears to accept the bird song, gurgling of river water, and flutter of maple, oak, and sycamore leaves. Ideas for the memoir I’d been revising before my hospital stay popped into my mind. My healing heart swelled with warmth.

Was hope my life now?

At that retreat, meditation teacher Rebecca Bradshaw, discussed the mind’s tendency to vacillate between hope and despair. She reminded us of the sanctuary of “not knowing” that exists between these two poles. This place where we can rest our minds is available to us at any time. Meditation teacher Shinzen Young calls this peaceful place “don’t know mind.”

Another word for “don’t know mind” is “equanimity” or balanced mind.

When we have equanimity, we hold our experience—our thoughts and the sensations in our bodies—with an open hand, allowing them to come and go. In that moment, we allow ourselves to not need answers. We neither push away despair, nor grasp for hope. Rather, we notice how they both flow. Shinzen explains more about “Don’t Know Mind” here.

For those new to meditation, the idea of finding solace in “I don’t know” may seem ridiculous.

But we can develop this useful skill.

We choose an object of meditation such as the physical sensation of the breath. When the mind wanders to something that seems to require an answer, we remind ourselves that it doesn’t need an answer (or doesn’t have an answer) right now.

My mind asks questions like “Will I ever finish this book?” or “Why do humans live so much longer than dogs?”

When I remember I’m meditating, I remind myself that I don’t currently know the answer to the first question and will never know the answer to the second. Then, I bring my attention back to the place I most readily feel the breath and continue to practice.

The “I don’t know” song:

On that despair-filled night at the retreat center, I remembered Rebecca’s teaching and refocused my attention on the sensations in my body. The chest pain was present, but not unbearable. The pins and needles of adrenaline ebbed and flowed.

As I lay there, my thoughts formed a song:

I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t friggin’ know.
Will we live
or are we dying?
I don’t friggin’ know.
(But I didn’t say ‘friggin’.)

My cardiologist had ordered a cardiac monitor for me to wear for a week and a cardiac MRI. Meanwhile, our country headed toward the next presidential election.

Lying on that bed, I didn’t know if my heart was permanently damaged. I didn’t know if I would write or run again. I didn’t know what would happen to our country. I wasn’t even sure I would survive this “temporary” heart condition I’d now had three times.

As those thoughts arose, I let my mind rest in that place of “not-knowing” and sang myself to sleep.

Ed and I returned safely home from the retreat. The cardiac test results were normal. And the political landscape has undergone a seismic change.

Hope grows, but…,

While the “high” of hope may seem to be a good thing, it can cause as many problems and pain as despair. Because hope generates pleasant thoughts and body sensations, we want it to stay. Notice its grip. Feel any striving to make it last. When I am hopeful, I find it more difficult to bring myself back to center, to that place of “not knowing.”

Who knew something so shiny could be so painful?

I’m not saying that hope is bad. And neither is despair. I only need to be aware of the suffering these polarizing emotions cause.

When I notice the strain of either hope or despair, I remember and return to the place in the middle: I don’t know.

And then, I get into action.

“I don’t know” doesn’t mean you have to be frozen or inactive. The “don’t know” equanimity offered by meditation is internal. On the outside, we can still take powerful action. In fact, when we’re not struggling against despair or grasping after hope, we have more energy to take meaningful, appropriate, timely action.

As I recover, I walk and jog (a little). I plan for future races. I donate to political campaigns. I double and tripe and quadruple check my voter registration. I urge friends to do the same.

Meanwhile, on the inside, I do my best to hold it all with an open heart and open hands.

Because, in the end, I simply don’t know.