Up until college we mostly operated from question to answer. Oh, sure, we had the lengthy math period in which we were obligated to “show our work,” but getting to the answer was still required. However, at the University of Minnesota, we began to discuss. It took a minute to get into the rhythm with the rest of the freshman class, all of us with our hands raised in the air, trying to keep in time with our imagined elementary jump ropes, waiting for our turn to Double-Dutch our way into the conversation. But how thrilling it was to ask questions without fear. To raise points. The true meanings resting in the questions themselves. Our colors revealed just from the asking.
I’m reminded of it whenever I pass my mother-in-law’s portrait. In her winding down years, memory failing, the frequency of her question toward me, — “Who is that movie star you look like?” — increased in the rotation. Joyfully increased in the rotation! Because frustration was always at bay, rearing its ugly head, when she would make the same points again and again. Or ask the same question after two minutes. But this question — the one I never got an answer for — never needed an answer for — kept the pondering alive. Kept the glorious memories alive that maybe she thought I was beautiful. Still. Maybe I could feel it, even for only the length of a question, ever. What a gift to have never been squashed by an answer.
The thing is, we think we need to know everything. That we need to be right. All we really need is to love. To be loved. I walk past her portrait and smile. Floating in the beauty of all that is unknown, but held for sure.
