Notes on Confusion

Photo taken during a walk. The confusion of the branches, their reflection in the water — something there held my attention.

Recently, in my reading, I came across an idea that stopped me in my tracks: clarity, passion, imagination, and confusion are all part of the raw terrain of human experience. They are all normal. Necessary, even. They coexist, respond to one another, balance each other out.

This idea stayed with me. I had never thought about it this way before. Confusion—not as a problem to solve, but as a full and legitimate part of lived experience. A state that counterbalances the others, that pushes us to search, to dig, to question. An uncomfortable place, yes, but perhaps an essential one if we are ever to find an axis, a direction, fertile ground.

What a revelation.

As I write this, I realize how long I’ve experienced confusion as a personal failure. As proof that something was wrong with me. Not knowing what to do, where to go, why I was going there—these moments came with a lot of guilt, and even a quiet sense of shame. As if I should always know. Always be clear. Always move forward with confidence.

I don’t know exactly where that pressure comes from. But thinking of confusion as something other than a fault—as something that simply belongs to the process—is deeply liberating. Maybe sometimes all that’s needed is to wait. To let things sit. To accept not understanding right away. And to trust that clarity will return, in a different form.

I’m beginning to understand that in learning, in art, and even in life more broadly, confusion is inevitable—and even necessary. So, from now on, I’m trying to be more compassionate with myself in that space.

I don’t need to push through it. I don’t need to rush myself. I don’t need to read these moments as failures. Confusion isn’t a wall—it’s fertile ground.

From there, other things become possible. Not a single solution, not a method to apply, but ways of staying connected to what feels alive. Moments of idleness. Walks in nature. Those small glimmers—subtle flashes that catch the eye without yet revealing why. Trying something new, without a specific expectation.

Meditation sometimes belongs to that space as well. Not as a definitive answer, and not as a way to empty the mind. But as an inner place where thoughts, emotions, and confusions can exist without me jumping on them, without immediately trying to understand or fix them.

A space to be with what is.

Taking the time to breathe within confusion.

To stay there for a while, even when it feels uncomfortable.

…to return to an inner north.

To deeper intentions.

Like a gentle resistance—

rather than drifting farther away, before we even realize it.

If these reflections