Just knowing you don't have the answers is a recipe for humility

Host: The sunset spilled through the windows of a quiet bookshop café, bathing the wooden shelves and dust in a soft amber haze. The faint sound of a record player hummed from the back — an old jazz tune looping, its scratches almost as soothing as the melody. The smell of coffee, paper, and warm air filled the room like a memory that refused to fade.

At a small table near the window, Jack sat, a notebook open before him, a half-empty cup cooling by his hand. His pen rested motionless between his fingers, as if waiting for clarity that wouldn’t come. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her coat still draped over her shoulders, her eyes watching him with quiet affection — the kind that asks without pressing.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that blank page for ten minutes.”

Jack: “It’s not blank. It’s… thinking.”

Jeeny: “It looks like it’s giving up.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Maybe it knows more than I do.”

Host: She laughed softly — that gentle sound that always seemed to make cynicism look foolish.

Jeeny: “You know what Dick Van Dyke said once?”

Jack: “The man could make tripping look graceful. What’d he say?”

Jeeny: “He said, ‘Just knowing you don’t have the answers is a recipe for humility, openness, acceptance, forgiveness, and an eagerness to learn — and those are all good things.’”

Jack: “So ignorance is enlightenment now?”

Jeeny: “Not ignorance. Awareness. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “I don’t see one.”

Jeeny: “Of course you don’t. You’re too busy trying to have the last word.”

Host: He looked up at her then, amused but also pierced by truth.

Jack: “You make humility sound like an art form.”

Jeeny: “It is. The rarest one.”

Jack: “And all it takes is admitting you don’t know everything?”

Jeeny: “That’s the first brushstroke.”

Host: The light shifted across their faces — one side gold, the other shadow. The world outside the window was changing colors, and somehow, so were they.

Jack: “You really believe not knowing can be… good?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Certainty is a closed door. Not knowing leaves it open.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s learned that the need to be right kills more curiosity than ignorance ever could.”

Jack: “So, what? We’re supposed to celebrate confusion?”

Jeeny: “We’re supposed to make peace with it.”

Host: Her voice softened then, like she was remembering something — or someone.

Jeeny: “When I was younger, I used to think being smart meant having answers. But the older I get, the more I realize wisdom is knowing what you don’t know — and still being kind in the face of it.”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s respect — for the mystery of things.”

Host: The record skipped once, then caught its rhythm again. Jack’s pen rolled off the table, hitting the floor with a small clatter. Neither moved to pick it up.

Jack: “I’ve spent my whole life pretending to know. To clients, to friends, to myself. Admitting uncertainty feels… weak.”

Jeeny: “That’s pride talking. Pride always mistakes honesty for weakness.”

Jack: “And humility fixes that?”

Jeeny: “Humility doesn’t fix anything. It frees you from having to.”

Host: He looked out the window — the streetlamps flickering on, one by one, like small acts of surrender against the growing dark.

Jack: “You know what scares me? The thought that maybe there aren’t any answers.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already learned the lesson.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “That life’s not a test, Jack. It’s a dialogue. You don’t win it. You learn it.”

Host: The words settled between them, gentle but grounding. The café around them grew quieter — just the hum of lights, the ticking clock, and the faint murmur of two souls practicing being small enough to listen.

Jack: “You make uncertainty sound peaceful.”

Jeeny: “It can be. When you stop demanding control and start inviting wonder.”

Jack: “You talk like Van Dyke danced — effortless.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Making grace look accidental.”

Host: He laughed — soft, almost to himself.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. The older I get, the less I understand, but the more I care.”

Jeeny: “That’s growth.”

Jack: “Or surrender.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: She reached for her tea, taking a slow sip, her gaze still on him.

Jeeny: “Think about it — every great teacher, every great artist, every great fool — they all start from the same place: I don’t know. That’s the only way something real ever begins.”

Jack: “But isn’t there danger in not knowing? Chaos?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But there’s also creation. The same chaos that confuses you is the one that gives birth to stars.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s science.”

Host: The lamp over their table flickered. Jack finally picked up his pen, twirling it between his fingers.

Jack: “So, humility, openness, forgiveness, eagerness — all that comes from just admitting we don’t have the answers?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the moment you stop pretending to know, you start actually learning. You start listening.”

Jack: “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: “To life. To others. To silence. To the parts of yourself you’ve been arguing with.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck eight — the sound soft and certain.

Jack: “You really think that’s the secret? Just… not knowing?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a secret. It’s the beginning.”

Host: He looked at her for a long time — then, finally, down at the notebook. Slowly, he began to write. Not an answer, but a question. The ink bled softly into the paper, fragile but alive.

Jeeny smiled.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it.”

Jack: “What is?”

Jeeny: “Humility. The courage to ask.”

Host: Outside, the night had taken full shape — quiet, infinite, patient. Inside, the café glowed with the warmth of small lights and even smaller certainties.

Jack closed his notebook, not because he’d found what he was looking for, but because he’d realized he didn’t have to.

He looked up at Jeeny, his expression lighter than it had been in weeks.

Jack: “You know, Van Dyke was right. Not knowing feels strangely… freeing.”

Jeeny: “That’s because freedom doesn’t come from answers, Jack. It comes from trust — that you’ll find the next step when you’re ready.”

Host: The jazz faded into silence. The record stopped spinning. But the air still hummed — with peace, with possibility, with something too quiet to name.

And in that stillness, Dick Van Dyke’s words seemed to linger like the last line of a beautiful melody:

“Just knowing you don’t have the answers is a recipe for humility, openness, acceptance, forgiveness, and an eagerness to learn — and those are all good things.”

Because wisdom isn’t certainty —
it’s curiosity wrapped in kindness.

And sometimes, the bravest thing we can ever say
is simply,
“I don’t know.”