I think I may be losing my curiosity.
Not all at once and nothing dramatic. I just stopped being curious somewhere along the way. Apparently, I decided to quit asking questions before curiosity had a chance to kill the cat.
I don't have the same urge to wander into unfamiliar neighborhoods. Trying a new restaurant requires more thought than it should. A new recipe seems unnecessary when I already know how to make something I like.
I have always said that one of life's great pleasures is meeting strangers. Yet somewhere along the line, I have become rather good at turning strangers into acquaintances and leaving it at that.
Is this what happens when we get older? Does curiosity slowly surrender to comfort?
Even the great mysteries of my Catholic faith don't occupy my imagination the way they once did. I have decided that sooner rather than later, I will have all of eternity to figure that crap out.
There is a certain arrogance in assuming we already know enough. I am, after all, a creature of habit. Same taverns, same routes, same restaurants, same mass time, same conversations, same bottle of beer, and same wake up time. There is comfort in knowing what comes next, but there isn't much adventure in it.
…and comfort, when we are not paying attention, can become a prison.
My Oldman spent years reminding me that there is no such thing as a stupid question. The older we get, the more questions we ought to be asking.
This morning's Chalkboard reminded me of that.
Most of us remember the scene in Ted Lasso when Ted stands in an English pub throwing darts and recalling the words from Walt Whitman: "Be curious, not judgmental."
It is a powerful scene, but what stays with me isn't the darts or Ted's victory over the snobby prick. It is the reminder that curiosity requires us to look beyond what we think we already know.
Especially when it comes to us.
I ought to be curious about the man I have become and where he is heading. About the people I love and the people I haven't met. About my children, my friends, my relationships, my faith, my mistakes, and whatever growth I can still squeeze out of these remaining years.
I should be curious enough to take a different road home, sit at an unfamiliar tavern, try something I cannot pronounce, or ask somebody a question and actually listen to their answer.
Curiosity doesn't require a passport, a reservation, or a grand adventure. Sometimes it only requires the willingness to interrupt an ordinary Tuesday.
Next week, the lights will begin coming on before dinner. The sun will surrender another hour of our afternoons, and soon we will push the clocks back into the long darkness of winter, but shorter days don't have to mean smaller lives.
Maybe that is the challenge for this last full weekend before daylight saving time ends.
Go somewhere different.
Ask another question.
Start a conversation.
Learn something new.
Challenge yourself.
At sixty, I don't need to have everything figured out, I hope I never do.
Because the day I stop wondering what else life has to offer is the day I start growing old instead of getting older.
Be curious, you beautiful Chalkheads.
Go put a little gusto and astonishment into your weekend.
