My friend Andy is in the process of buying a rural cottage in Argyll, Scotland. We are chatting over coffee on his balcony that overlooks the River Clyde in Glasgow. The cry of seagulls mixes with the rumble of city traffic and bicycle bells from the river path just below us. He is concerned about the numerous potentially problematic issues his solicitor has raised as part of the conveyancing process.
“Have you heard of a ‘ransom strip’?” he asks—I haven’t. The solicitor has shown him a Scottish Land Register map that marks a sliver of land between the main road and the access road, to which he wouldn’t have legal rights. Potentially, the owner could extort a large sum of money, just for him to access his property. Then, there are “burdens” in the title deeds that could interfere with any development plans for the property. Forestry and Land Scotland, which owns much of the surrounding land, could change how that land is used, in ways that would spoil his plans for a quiet retreat. None of this is very likely to happen, the solicitor told him, but there are people out there who make it their job to cause trouble for their neighbors. Andy doesn’t know his neighbors yet. “I guess I’ll just have to embrace the uncertainty of it all,” he says, attempting a smile.
At least his new abode doesn’t lie in a flood plain, and the wet west coast of Scotland is less prone to wildfires than other areas of the country. While much of Europe has been besieged by heatwaves and droughts, in Scotland we have been relatively comfortable. However, interconnected as we are, the increase in climate-change-induced natural disasters in recent years affects us all. It is easy to be drawn into anxiety about food shortages, political unrest, economic instability, and the effects of runaway technological shifts such as artificial intelligence. How to face a future that holds unprecedented levels of uncertainty and stay inwardly resourced?
I am intrigued by the Future Library project, started in 2014 as a collaboration between the artist Katie Paterson, the Future Library Trust, and the City of Oslo in Norway. Over the span of a century, one writer is asked each year to provide a manuscript that will be kept, unread, in a specially designed silent room in the Deichman Library in Oslo. A thousand trees have been planted in Norway to be made into paper for the publication of the works. Margaret Atwood was the first of the hundred, who are chosen for the wide scope of their imagination, their environmental awareness, and their interest in time. Here is an extract from a text she wrote for the handover ceremony of her manuscript Scribbler Moon, published in the UK’s Guardian newspaper:
I am sending a manuscript into time. Will any human beings be waiting there to receive it? Will there be a “Norway”? Will there be a “forest”? Will there be a “library”? . . . I picture this encounter—between my text and the so-far nonexistent reader—as being a little like the red-painted handprint I once saw on the wall of a Mexican cave that had been sealed for over three centuries. Who now can decipher its exact meaning? But its general meaning was universal: any human being could read it. It said: “Greetings. I was here.”
A documentary film about the project shows the ritual procession to the site of the handover ceremony, by the newly planted forest. I am struck by Margaret Atwood’s cheerfulness and radiance—she is obviously thrilled to be part of this visionary collective endeavor. Unlike another of the participating authors, David Mitchell, who, honestly admitted some initial reservation about not being read sooner, she is untroubled by the fact that she will never know how her work will be received—it has a life of its own. She lays this out in “Communion: Nobody to Nobody,” a chapter in Negotiating with the Dead.
Whether the gap between the writing of a book and the reading of it is a month, a decade, or a century, the writer and reader are never in the same room anyway. Atwood’s focus on human connection across time and space, rather than on individual significance, shows us one way to respond creatively to our fears about the future. Extending the imagination towards future life expands our sense of self and loosens its grip. Planting trees during a time of raging wildfires is a generous-spirited gesture, and it takes some insight into the delusion of separateness.
The project communicates the kind of hope that is undaunted by uncertainty but thrives on it. “What if times of crisis can serve as a kind of active agent, a lever that inspires personal and collective change?” Thomas Hübl asks. He outlines two main steps for this to occur: first, you acknowledge and accept your discomfort; second, you become curious and explore your uncertainty. He recommends mindfulness as a great aid in cultivating that openness. In his article in the magazine Psychology Today, he draws on Vlad P. Glăveanu, who sorts our relationship to not knowing into four states: “certain knowing,” which brings trust, “uncertain not knowing,” which brings anxiety, “uncertain knowing,” which brings curiosity, and “certain not knowing,” which brings wonder and awe.
Uncertain not knowing can be a painful, anxiety-producing experience that we tend to avoid, or to manage through proven, predictable actions. My friend Andy may do his best to minimize potential problems in the future, by getting the seller to sign an affidavit about the long-term use of the access route to his cottage. It is the last two modes of knowing that build inner resourcefulness and resilience, and that open the way to spiritual growth. Thomas Hübl again, referring to Glăveanu:
“Uncertain knowing” opens up the possibility of curiosity—the reflection that is inquisitive and probing, with no end goal in mind. And this last state, “Certain not knowing,” takes this one step deeper into what we might call the open space of the mystical or spiritual realms. (Psychology Today)
From Andy’s balcony we have a good view of the Millennium Bridge, with its colorful stream of people and pets, on foot and on many kinds of wheels, from buggies to scooters. The surrounding hum of traffic carries apprehension about our collective future. I feel it as a constriction in my chest and breathe more fully to allow it—made easier by the company of a kindred spirit. Will this bridge still be here a hundred years from now? Will there still be people? How will they propel themselves forward then? What will give them joy and what will be their struggles? In what state will the river be? I tell Andy about a couple of events I attended, run by a group called Who Owns the Clyde, which is working to make the river swimmable again and open up public access along the banks. I can almost see and hear the liveliness of the lido at a time when there are no more petrol cars.
“What does ‘embracing uncertainty’ look like for you?” I ask my friend. He stays quiet for a while. “The Heart Sutra comes to mind,” he says.
If I were a bodhisattva,
wise and kind, I’d look
into the lightness of things
and let it go, this tightness. (France)I recognize this translation of the essential Buddhist wisdom text—it is by the poet Linda France, a close friend of mine. Yes, this is what “certain not knowing” sounds like:
I’d say: what seems solid
is always changing—everything
that changes is the shape
of your days, your whole life.What you think, see and feel,
how you respond—all these
are always changing.Nothing stays the same.
Nothing is ever divided.
Only always changing.The five senses and what they sense,
the whole process of sensing:
always open, always changing.The sixth sense—when the mind
and the heart come together:
always open, always changing.No such thing as the shadows
ignorance sheds. No fading.
No death and no end of death.No such thing as pain—
where it comes from,
where it fades, no path
to trace away from pain.
Not even wisdom to claim.Goals too are always shifting
If I were a bodhisattva,
never holding on, blessed
with perfect understanding,
I’d be free of habit and delusion,
the fear they fuel,
and reach clearest Nirvana.All the past and present Buddhas,
Buddhas of the future,
use this essential wisdom
to see things whole and true.Listen to what they’re saying.
Let the mantra ripple in the air—
the words of the Mother of all the Buddhas
will free the world’s suffering.
Hear their truth. Believe them:Everything is open. Opening. Wide open.
Open to awakening. Joy! (France)
References
Atwood, Margaret. 2002. “Communion: Nobody to Nobody. The Eternal Triangle: The Writer, the Reader and the Book as Go-Between.” Chapter 5 in Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
France, Linda. 2012. “Heart Sutra: A Translation in HeartWork.” Glasgow: PlaySpace Publications.
See more
Into the Woods: Margaret Atwood Reveals Her Future Library Book, Scribbler Moon (The Guardian)
Future Library: A Century Unfolds (Vimeo)
What Is the World Asking of You? (Psychology Today)
Related features from BDG
The Roots of Harm: A Buddhist Reflection on Power and Compassion in Turbulent Times
Buddhistdoor View: Rethinking COP30 – Urgency, Responsibility, and Belonging Amid Climate Crisis
Rooted in Inter-being: What Ancient Trees Taught Me About Grief and Connection
Uncertainty, Insecurity, and Instability
War, Helplessness, and Hope
