The Gift of Curiosity

“Life on earth is a written language
that is read through the
living of it. . .”
Jamie K. Reaser (from In This Way)
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Curiosity was the theme at a talk I went to this week. Our name badges had the line ‘I am curious about…’ I finished it with Your story, and what excites you. 

Not knowing they built 30 minutes in for mingling, I arrived long before the presentation. Unlike when I’m speaking in front of a group or crowd, I’m shy in these open room meet-n-greets. I followed the other early birds upstairs, found a seat in the rows of chairs.

I like to chat with people sitting beside me at these things, so I turned to a couple, learned it was not their first time at one of these events. I noticed neither filled in the line on their name tag, so I asked. She was curious if I grew my own food. She was a gardener, and used to sell at the farmers market. As we talked, she said the most amazing thing: she didn’t like or appreciate flowers. She only grew them after she realized people would buy them. Function seemed important to her, so I asked if she ever planted marigolds alongside her vegetables to discourage bugs, or if she liked the flowers before they turned to seed or fruit. She shook her head. I’d never known anyone who didn’t appreciate flowers. A tiny purple flower sprouting on a rosemary sprig in my vase thrills me. 

It was my turn. I’m curious, of all the stories you have, which would you like to share? He said nothing. She’s trying to be an artist, her words. As I do when I hear writers and artists say the words ‘trying to,’ I asked if she was making art, and affirmed her as an artist. Adding, ‘I wrote a book about this, so it’s dear to my heart.’ She got it! Then surprised me again. For the first time in the year since The Writer’s Block Myth was published, I wasn’t asked what the title of the book is.

Art isn’t necessary like food or clothing, she continued. My eyes widened. She was a fabric artist, found it wrong small art quilts got more money than quilts for the bed. I thought about Amish and Appalachian quilts, the functional Navajo and Turkish rugs, all commanding great price. I said again what’s close to my heart.

Art is a language. It evokes something inside us. It creates connections, within us and between us. Art and writing are so powerful, artists, poets, and writers are executed in some countries, even when their works aren’t blatantly political. ‘Art’s not the same as a burger or salad,’ I said, ‘and it’s still food. It has always been a part of us humans.’

She mentioned prehistoric cave drawings. Yes! And it was art. They rounded the bodies of the animals, put figures in different poses, doing different things. Art told their stories. I shared I’d just learned about the Cuerva de los Manos (Caves of Hands) in Patagonia. Wondered out loud what stories those early peoples were telling. Blank eyes stared back at me.

At that moment, 100 people poured in, took seats all around us. The quiet room noisy, I turned away. 

I recently bought a book that sits on a table where I see it. The entire book feels like a work of artistry to me. The paper is luscious. The poetry simple and real. The cover & images inside lovely. It’s not art you’d see on my walls, and yet, I feel good when I look on–and in–it. It’s comforting, like certain foods. And the whole feels impeccable, like I envision my own books to be.

I didn’t notice the title until I got home. Leaves. I’ve loved leaf motifs forever. I have leaf finials, leaves on lamps, cards, tiles, and once across my bed on a duvet cover. I got rid of the cover in a move, and regret it. It was soft green with cream colored leaves woven all over with silky threads. Like the book, it held a mixture of things that feed my soul – texture, color, comfort, touch, a sense of home, a particular beauty.

The experience of these things is tied to what defines it in my mind & body beyond their physical bones. Just as we’re defined beyond blood, bones, and skin that holds us together. They’re more than talismans or symbols.

Many years ago I saw a short film that’s never left me. Rain falls in heavy sheets from a thick cloud-covered sky. 10 yr. kids in a classroom tease and taunt a girl who draws picture after picture of sunshine and flowers. We understand this is nuclear rain. They know sunshine and flowers are impossible. One day, they lock her in a closet. Moments later, the clouds part and the sun comes out. The kids rush outside, forget her. She bangs on the door, looks thru cracks in the wall at the sunshine she’s only seen in her imagination, and now can’t experience. Flowers spring up everywhere, cover a field. The kids laugh and play in the sunshine, gathering armloads of blossoms as they run. It lasts only a short time. The clouds close over, the rain falls. Once indoors, they remember the girl in the closet. With remorse on their faces, they unlock the door. One holds out the flowers as an offering.

On Valentine’s Day, in a high school in Utah, every single student received a rose. No one was left out because good people came together, donated time and money to make it happen. A student said the entire vibe in the school that day was one of smiles and sharing. Even the kids who act like they don’t care felt a part of it. What those roses represented transformed the entire school. Because one person was curious enough to see how every kid could get a rose.

At the same time, in a high school in Florida, one beautiful girl got nine bullets in her back as she ran from a shooter. 16 others died with her. The question here is are we curious enough to hear each other.

When the presentation around curiosity began, we were told to exchange answers to what we wrote on our name tags. The beautiful woman beside me was curious where I was from. I answered, thinking as I spoke, of all the things to be curious about in this moment with this theme, why that. There were so many possibilities, her answer could be fascinating. I didn’t have a chance to ask.

I went home, wrote on Facebook: Do you consider yourself a person with a good dose of curiosity about life & the world? Why or why not? What tweaks your curiosity?  I really want to know. What people said is exactly what I would say. And it says it all:

Being curious – pursuing the unfamiliar, unknown, and even the uncomfortable opens us up to discovery. . .the view is much bigger. Experiencing nature. Knowing how things work, or grow, and what they turn into. Spirituality. People. And a fellow writer follows her curiosity wherever it leads her, whether it’s how to buy a camel or uranium mining. We’re a citizen of the bigger world.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

• What are you curious about? Share it the comments below.
• When writing, let curiosity guide you. See where it takes your story.

Photo by Polychrome Creative

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