A treatise on not giving answers

I’ve spent my life looking for answers. Watching my cousin doing homework with his daughters, I realized what I needed was to be with the question.

Lights dim in a children’s bedroom as the chaos of a weekend settles and the routine of the week looms. Sleepy sheepish eyes look up to her father, as she realizes she has one last bit of homework to do before tomorrow. Hopeful to be asleep as soon as possible, she asks, “Dad, what’s the definition of this word?”  He scoops up their little mop of a dog and settles onto the floor next to her. Then starts to give an answer, while she furiously writes it down. 

A few words in, her pen freezes, brow knotted in dismay. “Come on Dad, that’s not right. Why do you always make things harder?” He patiently replies, “Huh, you don’t think so? What do you think it is?” 

I watch for 30 minutes, as she darts between pleading, frustration, negotiation, curiosity and finally something clears. Her head tilts and eyes lose focus as she ponders over her question. A little light goes off and she starts writing down her answer. 

I sat there awe struck, eyes wide, watching him look on with so much peace and pride in her. Something important just happened that I didn’t understand. 

As we walk into the living room, I pause and look at him, “What was that?”

He sits down, exhales and begins.

One day those little girls are going to leave my house. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when. They’re going to leave and I want that for them. So, what do I want to give them before they go? Do I want them to blindly trust authority? No. Do I want them looking to others for answers? No. I want to give them confidence in their ability to think for themselves and the security knowing that we’re always here for them. So what do I do?

So he gave them questions and comically wrong answers. A thousand practices, inside a sandbox made of love, belief and humor. A place to decide for themselves. 

Comfort in the exploration, rather than a fear of it.  The thing he was teaching was so much more than an answer. It was the ability to think for themselves, sit in discomfort and not know. To ground in the sense of, “What do I think?” and own that.

My mind reeled with all of the answers that had been hastily thrown at me. A guard against not knowing. All the fear and shame of being stupid or wrong. Feeling the visceral yank to give an answer when asked a question. A little kid whose hand would jump into the air, straining to show that she could do it too. How hard it was to sit in discomfort. 

I felt myself relaxing in the presence of verity. This felt right. This felt important and like a much bigger gift than any one solution. The willingness to sit with love and support while someone exercised their mind and judgment, confident in their success. Offering questions rather than answers and letting them find their way.

I want to support the brilliance in others and watch their genius flourish. I offer to you the opportunity to sit with your loved ones in the question. Explore with them. Empower independent thinking by giving questions, not answers.