The Potential That Lies in the Question

“…every question possessed a power that did not lie in the answer.” Elie Wiesel Night

A question can be significantly more important than the answer. If we don’t question, we naturally assume the “truth” we are presented with is just that,
the truth.
Then acceptance leads to manipulation and ultimately, for lack of a better term,
mush for brains.
When we question, we inquire. We show inquisitiveness and don’t just sit through life passively like dough waiting to rise. Questioning means we’re alive. It means we have an opinion. It means cures for cancer. World peace. Nobel prizes.
Questions mean change. To respectfully challenge the status quo is our responsibility as human beings. It encourages accountability.
Three things I see lacking in the world. And sometimes in my own immediate vicinity.
We need to encourage inquiry in others and, most importantly, in ourselves. To not be afraid of throwing out a “why” and to be equally unafraid of catching one. We need to cultivate genuine inquisitiveness in ourselves. Excitement for learning. Sometimes a difficult thing to do through the exhaustion of the day filled with work and obligation.
But the excitement someone builds in herself about the process or even the mere probability of acquiring knowledge
is infectious.
How often do we see a friend learning to and successfully remodeling her own home, or acquiring a new language, or training for a new job? And we think, “I could do that.”
But we leave it there.
What we should be saying is, “I want to do that, and I will.”
Then go out and make it happen.

To Pull Out Our Brain

“If only we could pull out our brain and use only our eyes” Pablo Picasso.

I sometimes have the tendency to overanalyze.

Ok, I often have the tendency to overanalyze and question and stew, which ultimately leads me to doubt my interpretation and second guess my response.

At times it’s exhausting.

And I wonder,

wouldn’t it be wonderfully freeing to once in a while absorb information simply at face value?

It is what it is.

To view it as a manifestation of truth with no assembly necessary. To see something, just to see it. To see someone just to see them.

To observe without elucidation or analysis.

To experience without intention.

Sometimes this is easy. Immersing myself in nature. Sitting on a beach looking out over the great expanse of the ocean. Inhaling the salty air deeply and listening to the lapping of the water.


driving through the mountains, the white peaks, the small trickles of melted water relenting to gravitational force and winding their way down the mountainside.

Watching fields of golden wheat dance in the wind.

No interpretation is needed.




It’s unfortunate such experiences don’t happen as often as they should. The life we create for ourselves, especially in adulthood, is crammed full of exterior stimulus of an electronic nature. The constant bombardment of information that needs to be processed and either stored or dismissed. Evaluation required.

Maybe we all have the eyes of an artist; we just need to “pull out our brain” in order to use them.

Memory as Metaphor

Memory is a funny thing.


It’s like a tiny alligator.  Lurking in shallow water leisurely swimming by moving it’s tail. You wade tentatively in life feeling warmth and security.  Going further out and away. When suddenly it grabs your ankle in it’s sharp pointy teeth reminding you it’s there. And then leaving little pointed pricks in your skin.

Prickly, pint points of blood. Distracting reminders.

Or it’s like a shroud that falls over you when you’re going about your business. In the middle of routine.  And suddenly a smell or a taste or an image will act the trigger release of a safety catch. Letting drop a black and suffocating shroud. That settles on you for an hour, or a day, or sometimes a week.

Until you’re destracted by an occurrence or

a conversation or

a making of another memory that will not take it’s place but rather act as a distraction. Strong enough to put shreds in that shroud.

At times its like a Tuesday bruise on your knee on Thursday.  Not as sore and tender to the touch as the day you received it, but now dark and purple and obvious when you lift your pant leg to view it.  Only to cover it up again.  Then have it glare at you in the face when you’re in the tub, knees popping up through the bubbles reminding you that you fell.

A small injustice or failure.

And every once in a while it’s like a little spot of sunshine that moves about a room.  You have to consciously see it.  Move towards it.  Plant yourself in it so that you can have it warm you.  If even for a little while.

Like a cat.

Until it’s time to move on and out of the sunshine

and back into the momentum of life.

Only to experience new alligators, shrouds, bruises

and blessed patches of sunshine.