I've been asking questions for a long, long time. I asked them as a child (Why? Why? Why?). I asked them as a young adult (graduate school and more graduate school). And now, as "mature" adult, I keep asking them. I am inquisitive, to say the least. I am armed with a critical mind that analyzes almost everything, always searching for the right answer.
My search has taken me to books and to teachers. I've found teachers in academic institutions and yoga studios. I've found them in my daily life. All have offered answers to my endless inquiry. But my questions are like an itch that I cannot scratch. My life has become one big question.
And this morning, as I settled in to my studies, I read the passage below and realized my mistake.
(from YinSights by Bernie Clark):
A young man came to visit the Buddha one day. He was filled with questions. He asked the Buddha about the nature of the universe, about the meaning of life, about death, and about many other things. The Buddha paused, and then in reply asked the man a question of his own. "Did someone tell you that I would answer these questions for you?" "No," replied the young man, "I am just eager to learn." The Buddha regarded him closely, and then taught an unexpected lesson.
"Once there was a man who was wounded by a poisoned arrow. A doctor was quickly summoned. The poison was deadly, and the man had little time left. As the doctor began to extract the arrow, the wounded man stopped him and asked, 'Wait. I must know who shot me! Why did he do this? What kind of man was he? Was he angry or jealous? Did he shoot me out of rage, or by mistake?' The doctor explained that the man had a choice: allow the arrow to be removed right away without any answers, and live, or wait for all his questions to be answered, and die."
It reminds me of an answer I received from my teacher, Dillon Cherrett: "Live life. Do yoga."