Yes? No? Maybe?
Option Two: Do Anything
I often make ambivalent clients play that game where you find a hidden object by following the clues "You're getting warmer" and "You're getting colder." Ditherers often stop dead in their tracks and start asking questions: "Where is it?" "Is it under something?" "Can I look up?" These are smart people and the game is extremely simple, but my waffling clients manage to find the one possible way to lose at it: not moving.
The reason I make my clients search my office for a pen, a coffee cup, or my elderly, immobile beagle is because many of us do this with major life decisions. I want to go back to school, but what if I ruin my career? That's a nice house, but what if it burns down? Instead of asking whether one option makes us feel "warmer" (as in happier) or "colder" (unhappier or generally squashed by the universe), we may ponder such questions for ten, 12, 50 years...then, boom! A quail-hunting expedition or liposuction procedure goes awry, and the only determination left is whether we'd prefer to spend the future in a coffin or an urn.
If you're waiting for the Right Answer to end all uncertainty, look no further: The answer to every "what if" question (which I got from a fabulous teacher named Nancy Whitworth, who got it from her special-needs students) is "som'n else." What will you do if you make the wrong choice? Som'n else. If you lose your job? Som'n else. If your fiancé stomps your heart into a pulsating pancake? Som'n else. Using this principle, we can formulate a complete guide to life:
- Do anything.
- See if you feel warmer (happier, more alive) or colder (more miserable and dead) if you do X.
- If it feels colder, do som'n else.
- Repeat as necessary.
Option Three: Do Something Completely Different
No problem, said Einstein, can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it. Then he resolved ambivalent aspects of Newtonian physics by figuring out relativity. Intense uncertainty may be a sign that a problem is pushing us toward a new level of consciousness. Instead of choosing one of two options, we may squirt sideways, like a pinched watermelon seed, into an entirely different way of seeing.
Zen masters force this to happen by requiring students to meditate on baffling queries called koans. "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" "What did you look like before your mother and father were born?" The masters insist that students answer such unanswerable questions, deliberately causing severe ambivalence. Why? Because this is the path to something called satori, an experience of the mind suddenly sidestepping its usual level of consciousness, recognizing its own limitations.
For instance, I once spent years studying role conflict in American women. Our culture has created two almost irreconcilable descriptions of a "good woman." The first is the individual achiever; the second, the self-sacrificing domestic goddess. I found that women fell into one of four categories: those who'd chosen career (and were very conflicted); those who put family first (and were very conflicted); those who'd combined work and family (and were very, very conflicted); and mystics.
Mystics? Where the hell did that category come from? It was so unexpected that I did years of interviews without even noticing that the calmest, happiest women had all experienced a kind of satori: Faced with two mutually contradictory options, they had discovered and come to trust an intensely personal inner voice. Each had found some method of detaching utterly from social context, connecting deeply with inner peace, and carrying that peace with them back into their hectic lives.