The other night I was somewhere where a wonderful person asked a lot of questions.
I find I'm not really interested in questions. This person is brilliant and very kind, and these were intelligent questions. There I was, not caring about her questions or the answers. But, of course, all of it was important to her.
She kept layering her questions. Every response led to another question, and she wanted layer after layer of clarification.
Let's just say for the sake of argument, that her questions were about poetry.
So I was saying to myself: What do we care about all the details. All we need to know, we know. It's GOOD. This poem is GOOD. Poetry is GOOD. It's GOOD. That's all I need to know.
Then I was thinking, if the questions were about the moon, would I feel the same way? Yes, I think I would. I know the moon intimately. When I am outside walking at night, the moon follows me. The moon is white and beautiful. I already know that the moon is made of cheese and reflects the light of the sun!
And then I thought, if the questions were about the tide, would I be interested? It's probably enough for me to know that the moon pulls the ocean water, and that that motion is called tide. I love the mystery of it.
And if the questions were about the galaxies of stars, would I be interested? I might. A little. But not too much. Too much knowledge might spoil the stars for me.
When I visited in Zion National Park, I was interested that the water that seeped through the rocks -- well, it took four thousand years for the water to seep through! I do wonder how someone knows that.
People interest me. I can't get over the fact that every single one of us that is or ever was is unique. No two alike. Ever. Amazing.
Words and books and stories and blogs interest me. The bank of words in any language has a limit, and yet the way words are put together is infinite. How can that be?
What interests you?