In Curiosity: A Form of Intimacy, I told a story about my daughter and a gift bag. The lesson was simple: Instead of locking into a conclusion, ask an unassuming question. I suggested “Why do you say that?” It’s a way of choosing curiosity over combat. Connection over victory. Understanding over performance.
Then life did what life does and tested me immediately.
I recently I ordered toner for my printer. A necessary purchase. I depend on my printer. I have things to ship, labels to print, documents to prepare. When the toner runs out, it’s not a mild inconvenience. It’s a problem.
The order said it would take three to five business days. That already felt like a long time. On the supposed day of delivery, I watched the tracking like a hawk. The tracking system said the package would arrive by 7 p.m. At 6 p.m., I received an email saying the package had been delivered. I checked my porch and found nothing.
At 7 p.m., I checked again. Nothing. I looked around my front door. I looked around the house. I checked the usual spots. Nothing. I was irritated.
The longer I didn’t see the package, the more my mind started building a story. Options included but were not limited to:
- The postman scanned it early and didn’t deliver it.
- It was delivered to the wrong address.
- It was marked “delivered” to meet some internal metric, and it’ll magically show up tomorrow.
- Somebody stole it.
The mind loves a villain. The mind loves a conclusion.
The next day came. No toner. Two days after it was “delivered,” I finally said, “Alright. I have to call the toner company and let them know I didn’t receive it.”
I called them and explained the problem. They asked: “Can you confirm the address?” I gave them my home address. They responded, “We have it going to . . .”
The address was my office. I’d been looking for this toner at my home address the entire time.
The second they said the office address, I thanked the customer service representative. Hung up, then drove to my office. It was right there. Delivered to the correct location. I had been working from home, and hadn’t been to the office.
The unresolved issue was . . . me. I had to laugh at myself. After all, I teach this. I write about this. I tell people to practice this. Here I was, challenged. I made a conclusion, built a story, assigned blame, and let my frustration grow, without first checking the most basic question:
“What might I have done?”
Or even more simply:
“What else could explain this?”
That’s curiosity too. Curiosity is not just something we offer other people. It’s something we can offer ourself. It’s the willingness to pause and ask, “Before I accuse anyone, before I go to war, before I lock in . . . is there something on my end I haven’t considered?”
We don’t usually skip curiosity because we’re evil. We may be stressed. We may be impatient. Tired. Moving fast. Working to get things done. We want a simple answer and grab one. The answer that makes us feel smartest, safest, and most justified. The problem is often “them.” The postman. The company. The other person. The world.
What does this have to do with relationships? How many times have we participated in a similar exchange with our partner, our child, our friend, our coworker? Things don’t happen as expected. We don’t get the response we hoped for.
We could pause and ask one curious question that relates to ourself, such as:
- Did I say something offensive?
- Did I misspeak?
- Was I too brash?
But instead, we focus on what the other person did wrong. I’m noting this as someone who still has to practice this. I am not a master of this skill.
There’s still work for me to do. The toner situation was a perfect reminder.
I say to you, and most importantly to me, before looking at how someone may have dropped the ball or messed up, let’s review our participation and assess whether we caused or even participated in creating the problem. In this instance, I certainly had.
Asking ourself questions that investigate our contribution to an unwanted occurrence is a personal gift and one to our relationships. It’s also loving.
Keep Rising,
Frank Love
