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Why Questions are Better than Answers

“Why?”

 My shoulders tense and my stomach flutters when I hear that one-word question.

 Why? Because, when someone asks me this question, I feel compelled to know something or to explain myself.

 “Why?” triggers the fight-or-flight syndrome and I have the urge to defend my position or to deflect a criticism. “Why?” puts people on the spot.

 “Why do like wine better than beer?” I just do.

 “Why do you write?” Because I must.

 "Why did you paint your house that color?" None of your business. 

Is there a way to find out what motivates people, what excites them, what makes them tick without erecting walls of defensiveness?

One answer: Be a journalist. Reporters rarely asks “Why?” To get a good story, they look for the who, how, what, where and when. These are curious questions. They probe into the people, methods, purpose, place and time of a situation, an issue or an event.

 “Why?” probes for a cause or digs for a reason that may be too personal to explain. I admit that “Why?” does get the neurons firing.

“Why you go to church?” or "Why don't you go to church?"
"Why are you a Republican?" (or a Democrat, or a Libertarian, or ...)

Now those are REALLY none of your business!

 “Why?” can be a circular question, to which the only answer is another “Why?”

 “Why did you take a ‘working’ vacation?”

 Why not?

“What did you do on vacation?
“Who did you meet?”
“What did you learn?”
“How did you spend your days?”

These questions invite me to show and tell. They signal that the questioner wants to learn something about what is important to me.

There is one “why” question I can answer with ease: “Why are questions better than answers?”

No matter how they begin, questions are humble. They encourage curiosity and promote interaction. Research in the fields of neuroscience, psychology and coaching show that how we see the world around us affects the questions we ask. I suggest that the questions we ask change how we see the world.

The quest for answers – especially the “right” ones – narrows our focus. When we jump to respond or offer an opinion, we tell others, “I know something you don’t know; let me enlighten you…”

Even “Why?” – when posed with an open mind – says, “I am interested in you and what you have to say…tell me more, show me what you care about.”

When in doubt, wonder. Got the urge to offer advice or impress someone with what you know? Take a deep breath then ask a question.

Why? Because questions are full of surprise. Go ahead, ask a question. Let yourself be amazed at what you still have left to learn.

Spinning Words into Gold

Autumn Morning in Brasstown, North Carolina



When I looked at the date of my last blog post – September 8, 2010 – I felt like Rip Van Winkle waking up from a long, groggy sleep. Have I really been absent for more than a year? Where have I been? What have I missed? These are questions for another post.

For now, I want to let you know that my wake up call came at a writing workshop I attended last week at the John C Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC. When I decided to take a week’s vacation to visit a friend who is renting a house in Brasstown, I checked the Folk School’s catalogue. “Spinning Words into Gold” was the only writing workshop offered that week. I weighed my options for recovering from many long months of work, work work – I could spend a week sitting on the porch, staring at the mountains colored in their autumn finery, reading a book, drinking wine or I could stretch my imagination at a writing workshop. The adventurous side of me nudged, “Come on. Let’s have some fun!” So I signed up for “Spinning Words into Gold.”

And fun it was – five days of playing with words under the enthusiastic guidance of writing midwife Maureen Ryan Griffin. Maureen set the stage for our week by asking us to say one of our favorite words. “Crimson” was my choice. The other words offered by the group were sassafras, aplomb, sultry, paramount, sensual, glorify, improvisation. Maureen gave us five minutes to spin these unrelated verbs, nouns and adjectives into a response to the phrase “I have always known…”

I wrote without thinking…

I have always known
That having fun was paramount
To glorifying the sensual
Side of a crimson star
Pinned high atop a report card

And I scribbled…

I have always known
That I don’t know much
And all that I know is an improvisation
Of a greater play
In which I am a tiny part of a greater scheme

I went on and on, ending with…

I have always known…
And I keep forgetting
What I have always known
So I remember again…

That exercise set the stage for a week of discovery. I wrote poems and essays sparked by phrases such as “I remember…” and lists of people and incidents that formed who I am today. We read other writers’ poems, mining them for inspiration. We played with metaphors and memories. Smells (frying meatballs), tastes (peppermint stick ice cream) and sounds (Motown dance music) took me back decades to people and places that shaped my beliefs and habits. I wrote about cars I have driven (and the men who drove me to them.) We posed unanswerable questions then challenged ourselves to answer them.

I left my week at the Folk School reawakened and recommitted to a writing practice, just for fun. Here is the pledge I wrote to remind me to stay awake. Won’t you join me?


Starting HereInspired by William Stafford, You Reading This, Be Ready
Starting here, I pledge to stay awake
to my heart
its wanderings and wonderings
questions whispered in the dark
Where am I going?
How long will I stay?
Who will I meet?
Who do I leave behind?

Starting here, I make a living by living my life
and I know the way forward in starting here.

Here, now, I start what I have begun over and over –
to listen, to write, to read, to be who I am –
That’s a good place to start
and starting happens over and over again
here and now.

Starting here, I hoist my sails,
buoyed by courage
ballasted by fear
that I will start and fail
as I have done before when I started here.

The finish line is usually out far ahead.
Starting here, I leave the end point
at my back.

I am done being unfaithful
to being fruitful -
I bear ripe, juicy compostable fruit
leaving seeds of inspiration
in my wakefulness.

Starting here, I end and renew
Come with me or stay behind -
You choose.
I am starting here.

Because/For No Good Reason

Last weekend, I rode over 40 miles with a group of very vibrant and fit middle aged women. As we pedaled into the tail end of Hurricane Earl's winds, one of my biking friends, Ann, commented that her daughter, who is a teacher, did not have school one day in early September because the air conditioning was broken. That sent us off on a "When I was a kid..." reverie of hot classrooms that led to silliness about walking to school in the snow for miles and doing our homework by candlelight. Ann said, "And now that we are middle aged women, we ride 50 miles for no good reason." Her words lingered in my memory of our hours together and inspired this poem. Thanks, Ann!



Dixie, Ann and Linda ride the wind with Hurricane Earl...for no good reason.












Because/For No Good Reason

Pioneer children walked 10 miles in the snow
to learn reading, writing and ‘rithmetic
because there were no carpools or school buses.

In the early days of the last century farmers walked
behind horse-drawn plows
because they had no tractors.

When we were young, we sat in hot classrooms
in the waxing and waning days of summer
because school buildings had no air conditioning.

As middle aged women we ride 50 miles on bikes
for no good reason.
Like the chicken who crossed the road
and footloose dogs that chase bike riders
we do it because we can.

A day may come – tomorrow or 30 years from now –
when a long bike ride will be a memory
that aches more than over-used muscles,
because memories of lost youth are the worst part of growing old.

So I ride for no good reason – because I can.

Dancing with I Don't Know

I, Linda, promise, that wherever I am, no matter what, for the sake of all beings, in my presence, life will show as a courageous and compassionate dance with “I don’t know.”


The first time I spoke those words it was 2006. I was in my first year of the Applied Healing Arts master’s degree program at Tai Sophia Institute. There were only a few minutes left in the weekend during which we had been exploring our calling and commitment in the world. Our teachers, Dianne Connelly and Susan Duggan, asked each of us to stand up and state our promise – a short sentence that describes what gifts the world receives because we are here.

The attributes courage and compassion came to me early in the weekend and I knew that I wanted my presence in the world to be as fluid and graceful as a dance. Yet, the harder I tried, the less able I was to see with whom I was dancing.

I was one of the last of the group to stand. In a strong voice, I repeated the beginning of the phrase, “I, Linda, promise, that wherever I am, no matter what, for the sake of all beings, in my presence, life will show as a courageous and compassionate dance with…” And I stopped. I stomped by feet and clenched my fist and, in frustration, shouted “I don’t know!” Everyone cheered and clapped --- my promise had been revealed.

Looking back, I see that I was first introduced to my promise by the nuns and priests who taught me from the Baltimore catechism in the 1960s. I memorized and recited answers to the big questions: “Who made the world?” “What is God?” “Does God know all things?” If any of us asked for an explanation more tangible than what the catechism offered, our teachers told us, firmly and finally, “It’s a mystery.”

This answer became less satisfying when I discovered Nancy Drew. Like the fictional girl sleuth, I was determined to use ingenuity and persistence to solve life’s mysteries. Throughout grade school, into high school and all through college I was rewarded with A’s for knowing answers. When I transitioned to the work world, I earned promotions and bonuses for problem solving. “I don’t know” was a phrase I rarely used. And when I did, I always added, “But I’ll find out!”

When I found my way to Tai Sophia and the Applied Healing Arts program, I was reintroduced to mystery. There were no right answers. There weren’t even any grades! Instead, the lessons came by observing my experiences and paying attention to my reactions to them.

As an Applied Healing Arts student, I was introduced to philosophies grounded in ancient wisdom traditions. I experienced how we are all interconnected and how our words create our world. I was shocked and delighted to discover that we live in stories that we create and that upset is optional. These principles and related practices became my life preservers as I learned to sail more skillfully through the seas of daily life. Instead of living my life as if it is a race toward some elusive goal, I now live more fully engaged with what is happening here and now.

The Applied Healing Arts program appeals to people who are interested in health and wellness without necessarily wanting to use acupuncture needles, herbs or other types of hands on healing tools. Just as painters are artists who use colors and shapes to create works of art, Applied Healing Arts students are life artists. We create healing environments by cultivating self-awareness and by being a healing presence at work, at home and out in the community.

I used to think that the purpose of going to school was to absorb information and feed it back for a grade. I now appreciate that it is through asking questions – and sitting with unanswered questions - that I truly learn. From the perspective of “I don’t know” I can be still and let my intuition inform my next step. The humility of “I don’t know” invites others to offer their opinions as we explore new solutions together.

From the freedom of “I don’t know” I created a vision that I might never have imagined if I had stuck to more familiar ways of thinking and acting. Early in the Applied Healing Arts program, each student looks into the future and imagines something that does not yet exist, something that, if it existed, would reduce unnecessary suffering and promote healing on all levels. My vision emerged as a headline that reads:

American Medical Association reports that language overtakes medical interventions in its power to enhance health and well being.

My stomach flutters when I imagine the steps that need to be taken before the New York Times prints that headline. Instead of being overwhelmed by the task ahead of me, I see that I have already taken one step toward making that vision a reality by creating a workshop that introduces healthcare workers, business people, parents and anyone in relationship with others to the Applied Healing Arts practices that have changed my life. I also breathe more easily when I remember that, as I take the next step, then the next, I do not do the work for myself and I do not do the work by myself.

People who know that I have a master’s degree in Applied Healing Arts often ask, “Where will this degree lead you?” I answer, “I don’t know.” What I do know is that, as a lifelong learner, I have the courage and compassion to more gracefully dance with the questions life offers up. I am a beginner, perpetually in practice.

NOTE: The Applied Healing Arts master’s degree program has a new name. Students who began the program in 2010 will graduate with a degree in Transformational Leadership and Social Change. Learn more at http://www.tai.edu/.

Photo: Shy Ballerina by Nate Kay.

12.2

I have 64 days to get ready to ride the Wild Goose Chase. This is a one-day all-women bike ride in and around Blackwater Wildlife Refuge in Dorchester County, Maryland.


Getting ready to ride the Seagull Century in 2009.

I got the cycling bug last year, when my friend, Anna, invited me to train with her to ride in the Seagull Century. For those of you who don’t speak cycling-ese, a century is a 100-mile bike ride. Before you get too impressed, there is also something called the metric century, which is 100 kilometers or 64 miles. I am a metric century cyclist. Or at least I was once last October. This year, I am training for a repeat of that distance when I ride the Wild Goose Chase on October 17. [Check out this fundraiser for the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge at http://www.terrybicycles.com/tours.]

I don’t brag about my riding stats. Between the heat and travel and just plain procrastination, my weekday morning rides have been a toodle this summer, averaging 15-16 miles. On Saturday morning, I have been gradually building my endurance so that I can actually walk without too much groaning after a 30-mile ride.

If you are impressed by my commitment to distance, do not put me on a pedestal quite yet. Another aspect of cycling is speed. I am a slow and steady cyclist. No matter how hard I push myself, my average is a modest 12.2 miles per hour. I’m not breaking any records. But I am having fun and testing my commitment to something other than red wine and Ben and Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide.

I wrote this poem to make peace with my average riding speed and to remind myself that sometimes being good enough is good enough



12.2

No matter how fast I pedal
I average 12.2 miles per hour.

Even when I push myself
spinning the wheels to 14, 15, 16 mph,
by the end of the ride
the bike computer registers an average speed of 12.2.

When I pump like hell
down a sloping country road,
and the speedometer peaks at a respectable 19 mph,
I end the ride with a score of 12.2.

With the wind at my back, my average never waivers.
Even with a boost from drafting the tail of a pace line
I still clock a modest 12.2.

When I end my days
and St. Peter tallies my good deeds and gaffs,
I hope I get a seat with the other average riders,
the ones, like me, who tried like the devil to be the best,
and ended the ride only to find that all it took
to get from birth to death
was to be good enough.

Climbing Dun I: There is no easy path

“Is the mountain high?”

That’s what The Fool wanted to know when I walked the Medicine Wheel a few weeks before my first trip to Scotland.

Let me step back 10 years and tell you about The Fool, the Medicine Wheel and a mountain called Dun I (pronounced done-EE).

At a little more than 400 feet above sea level, Dun I is the highest point on the island of Iona. Many, many years ago, in prehistoric times, Dun I was a fort. Today, it is a place where visitors find solitude and expansive views of Iona, the Atlantic Ocean, the Isle of Mull and other neighboring islands.

Iona was one of several sites I visited when I went to Scotland with five other women in September of 2000. Anna, Lainie, Delpha, Aprille, Robin and I mapped out a pilgrimage that had been inspired by Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book, Crossing to Avalon.

The Medicine Wheel Riddle

Before we left Maryland for Glasgow, Robin led us through a process called the Medicine Wheel, a decision making tool used by Native American people. The "wheel" consists of individuals who stand in a circle posing as the archetypes Tradition, the Warrior, the Shaman, the Witch, the Tribal Chief, the Creator, and the Pattern-keeper. Before walking the circle, the person seeking guidance whispers a question into the ear of the Fool, the eighth member of the Medicine Wheel. The Fool flips the question into a seemingly unrelated query. The seeker takes the transformed question to each character. One by one, the ancient wisdom keepers respond in the spirit of their character.

When it was my turn to walk the Medicine Wheel, I whispered to The Fool, “Am I destined to use my creativity as a writer?” Without hesitation, The Fool whispered back, “Is the mountain high?”

Traveling around the Wheel, I asked The Fool’s question. Tradition began a series of disturbing answers by saying, “The sky is blue.” The Warrior told me, “Mountains have been high for centuries.” Next, the Shaman said, “It’s as high as you can see.” The Witch pronounced a curt, “Some are, some aren’t.” Leading me down a different path, the Tribal Chief said, “The people are strong.” Returning to talk of the mountain, the Creator added, “It’s only as high as you think it is.” The last elder to speak, the Pattern Keeper, offered a nonchalant, “Mountains are what mountains are.”

I left the Medicine Wheel experience frustrated. What did mountains and this other nonsense have to do with how I would spend the next half of my life? I could only hope that the riddle would be solved as I trekked the highlands and the lowlands of Scotland.

A Hiking Lesson
During our two days on Iona, we agreed to spend one day on our own. After practicing yoga on a hilltop overlooking the Abbey, I took a hike. I headed toward a mountain I had seen in the distance. I will make it that far and that high, I said to myself whenever a barbed wire fence blocked my way or a gust of cold ocean wind tempted me to go back to the inn for a cup of tea.

View of the Iona Abbey from Dun I

After hours of hiking across pastures alone except for the occasional herd of sheep, I arrived at the top of Dun I. I was a mess. My shoes were caked with sheep droppings, my socks were soaked and my pants were splattered with mud. I sat at the top of the mountain, watching the sea brush the shores of the island. As I rose to leave, I saw Robin. She stood on a rock several yards below me. Her face glowed as she looked out across Iona.

A seasoned outdoorswoman, Robin had scaled much higher peaks on several continents. Yet, this was one mountain she hadn’t expected to climb. For several years before this trip, Robin had been in treatment for breast cancer. A few months before we were scheduled to leave for Scotland, she was unsure that she would be well enough to go with us.

Climbing this mountain was a major accomplishment for both of us. My triumph was simple and profound: I had allowed myself to get dirty, to wander alone, to be clumsy and to risk getting lost. Robin stood in wonder at the physical stamina she had mustered to reach the highest point on the island. Standing on this rise out in the sea, we both remembered the miracle of being alive.

Robin told me she was was deciding which route to follow back to the village. She pointed to two paths—one to our left that looked like a straight, clear route down to the main island road, and another more circuitous and rocky way to our right. After examining both of them, she chose the right-hand path.

“Sometimes the easier path is actually the more dangerous one,” she said. I listened as she explained that, even though the straight path looked easier, one misstep could lead to a hazardous fall down its steep, unprotected slope. The other, more crooked path might be slower and require more work, but it had a grassy shoulder to cushion a stumble.

As I absorbed Robin’s hiking wisdom, I remembered my Medicine Wheel question. I realized that Robin had given me my answer. I had psyched myself into believing that being a writer was a dangerous path littered with solitude, criticism and rejection. Relinquishing my writing dream and going back to a safer, more established job might have seemed easier. I also knew that working in fast-paced corporate settings where the income was lucrative and the work secure had endangered my health, sapped my energy and depleted my creative juices. I saw, too, that her guidance applied not only to my work, but also to my relationships and my spiritual path.

In the years since I climbed down Dun I with Robin, I have applied her hiking advice to the challenges of daily living. When I am tempted to run away, hide out or relinquish a dream, I remember that the easy route can be the more dangerous one.

Soon after returning from Scotland, I stepped up and declared that I am a writer; I admitted that being a communicator is my life’s work. I continually exercise my creative muscles whether I am working on a feature story on a health topic, writing a news release for a community event or scribbling a poem in my journal.

More Lessons from Dun I



Back on Iona in 2010, I headed for Dun I on my first free afternoon. This time, I entered the path to the mountain through a gate off of the main island road.

At the top of Dun I, I found a spot on a flat rock and sat quietly, dazzled by the turquoise waters that held the island on all sides. The wind moved in cold gusts as the cloud-covered sun burned a hole in the thick morning fog.

After taking a rest, I walked around the top of the mountain. I searched for the spot where Robin had given me a hiking lesson 10 years earlier. The terrain looked different. Every way down looked steep and dangerous.

I decided I would go down the way I came up. I remembered that, on the way up, I had used sheer muscle and the exertion of my pounding heart to move from the flat pasture of the farmer’s sheep fields to the rocky surface of the hilltop. Going down, I stepped more carefully. This was an exercise in agility and attention tempered with a dose of humility when I sat on my butt to scramble down a few rocky patches.

In the years since my first climb to Dun I, I have become more comfortable walking along what looks like the more dangerous path. I look for challenges and willingly go into situations that are new and unknown. On my second climb up Dun I, the mountain had a different lesson to teach. I noticed that climbing to reach higher planes where I can find broader views of the landscape is heart work. It takes compassion and courage - and a good bit of willpower - to take myself up and away from the day to day of life, where I can get a new point of view. Coming back down to earth – back into the worlds of work, relationships and the quotidian of paying the bills, doing the dishes and weeding the garden - requires clear thinking, some forward planning and the willingness to look clumsy and to stumble a bit.

I live life as if it were a mountain climb even though I live on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, one of the flattest terrains on Earth. Heart and strength, patience and humility are worthy companions no matter how challenging the task. And when the path looks easy, I step back and wonder, “Is this mountain high enough?”


Climbers add stones to the cairn at the top of Dun I