I caught a snippet of a beautiful poem whilst listening to the radio the other day. On being right. And being certain. And on the beauty and importance of doubt.
From the place where we are right
Flowers will never bloom in the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard, and trampled like a yard.
But doubts and loves dig up the world
Like a mole, a plough.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined house once stood.