Questions and Answers and Gingerbread Houses

It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked. He said that now that he no longer has the answers, his faith is deeper than it was when he had explanations for everything. At one time, I was too afraid of failing to try; I was scared of not having the answers, and I was too cowardly, even, to ask questions. Over time, as I've begun to loosen my grip on things, I have found that I've missed out on the fundamentals of youthful ignorance by handing out answers rather than admitting to my own curiosities...what a waste of wonder. Joni (pronounced 'yaw-nee') wanted to teach me to drive a stick one night in the snow. As I swerved onto an empty street and laughed nervously, he put his hand on mine and we did our best to communicate. Even though it was terrifying to glide along the icy road in the dark, I was alright - knowing that my non English speaking friend was guiding us to the local tavern and, somehow, we would arrive. It was difficult to relax with the seat belt choking me, the heater was on full blast, I didn't feel well that day; but any number of excuses still could not erase the pleasure of learning something new and embracing the thrill of the unknown. I had a subscription to Elle magazine all throughout Junior High school. I always felt sorry for my peers, whose concept of fashion was a direct result of what their overweight mothers picked out for them at Gap. When I visited New York for the first time with my choir group, I watched the other fourteen year old girls squeal and express surprise at the items hung on mannequins in the window displays on fifth avenue, and I shook my head saying, "duh." It's quite hilarious that I'm now an average, middle class adult who shops where everyone else shops and carries the same bag virtually year-round. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly original. There was a point in my life when I was a complete music snob, listening only to the newest of the new underground stuff and shunning anyone whose radio dial landed on KISS FM for (clearly) having no taste. I considered my itunes collection far superior to anyone else's, as I was always the first to discover and promote unknown talent. I have since developed the ability to say things like, "no, I've never heard this awesome indie band" to my cooler friends, although the process has been a slow one. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly knowledgeable. I thought I was so cool a few years later when I began cooking. When I realized that culinary art is, actually, art, I decided that only amateurs who can't determine the difference between red and green cardamon use recipes. Every morsel is a masterpiece, I thought. Now that I live alone, however, I have a high appreciation for lean cuisines and all the things I once mocked. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly versatile. I suppose it has taken time in order for me to realize that I really don't know very much, after all. I envy the way my father has marveled at the unknown in recent years in a way he probably hasn't done since childhood. I have to admire that he asks questions with no intention of gaining THE answer, but to discover what he might be missing. I love that he can admit he's lacking. I asked how things were going, and he replied,"Today has been slightly less confusing than the previous days." He maintained that today, amidst the questions and abstractions, he could see a bit of hope and was at peace, despite the complexities of his future. Sometimes, written in the grey, is the most pleasing answer of all: the fact that the answer, often, is yet unknown, and that's okay. Alli and I teamed up in the gingerbread house-making this evening. She and I both tag 'artist' onto our self-assessment, in a way that suggests our ability to create things is, essentially, our DNA. Everyone at the table knew this about us, as we nibbled on corners of gingerbread walls and claimed we had mice living in the house. Perhaps they (perhaps WE) expected a great mansion; but the end product resembled some abandoned house in the ghetto in need of condemning. The roof was caving in and each side had icing sloppily flung to its corners and gumdrops scattered sporadically about its surface. We laughed at our work and had no problem admitting that we had successfully made the ugliest one. It was fun to admit that I had no idea that adding water to the icing made it shiny. We admired the big, hideous mess we made on the kitchen table and I'm pretty sure it's safe to say we both felt pretty good about it. I am highly interested in researching the reason why I've been so prideful all of my life. I'm interested to know why I spent my childhood, unable to admit to being a child, capable of failure. I'm wondering how it is that, at my age, I feel like I'm beginning to grow up. Most of my life, I've failed to ask questions. I didn't want anyone to know that I didn't hold the explanation to things; the fact is, my hesitance to ask has hindered me from discovering much truth in the quest for answers. It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked.