Honestly,
I cannot remember the last time I sat with a harmless question for very long.
I wonder about something, reach for my phone, and within seconds I know the answer.
What was that actor’s name?
How far away is Iceland?
Why do dogs turn around before lying down?
Is this plant dying, or is it simply dramatic?
There it is.
Answered.
I love having information at my fingertips. It helps me learn, solve problems, make decisions, and settle arguments I was almost certainly going to win anyway.
But I think it has taken something from me, too.
I do not wonder as much as I used to.
When I was younger, my dad woke me during a camping trip near Lake Superior.
The northern lights were moving across the sky, and he wanted me to see them.
There was nowhere we needed to be. No task to complete. No photograph we needed to take. He had simply noticed that something extraordinary was happening above us and decided it was worth waking me up.
I remember standing there with him, looking up.
The sky seemed enormous. Lake Superior seemed endless. The lights were beautiful and strong and doing something I could not explain.
So we watched.
Today, my phone could tell me exactly what was happening. Charged particles. Earth’s magnetic field. Gases in the atmosphere. Different colors at different altitudes.
It could give me an aurora forecast, cloud coverage, viewing probability, the best direction to face, and probably a reminder to bring a jacket.
That information is useful.
But it is not the same as being awakened by your dad because the sky is doing something extraordinary.
Knowing how something happens does not explain what it feels like to stand beside someone you love and watch it happen.
That is the part I miss.
Somewhere along the way, unanswered questions started to feel like tiny emergencies.
Quick. Find the answer. Name the thing. Put it in the correct mental folder. Move along; there are seventeen other tabs open.
At work, I see how quickly that habit shows up.
Someone starts describing a problem and I am already halfway to the solution. We diagnose before we listen. We settle on the first explanation instead of asking one more question. I miss wondering long enough to notice what matters.
I understand more about the northern lights now than I did on that camping trip. But the fact I remember most clearly is not how they were made. It is that my dad woke me up.
He did not have an answer for me that night.
He had a sky.
And he woke me up.
I want more of that kind of attention at work.
Less reflex answering.
More genuine noticing.
When I slow down enough to ask one more curious question, I hear what people actually mean.
The work gets clearer. The conversation gets kinder.
Sometimes the most helpful thing I can offer is not the answer.
It is staying with the question long enough for understanding to catch up.
Reflections
1. Where at work have I mistaken a familiar situation for one I fully understand?
2. When someone brings me a problem, do my questions make room for their experience—or steer them toward my answer?
3. What have I stopped noticing because I am busy explaining, solving, or moving on?
From the Toolbox
1. Ask before you solve. Before offering advice, ask, “What would be most helpful right now—someone to listen, help thinking it through, or a decision?”
2. Separate what happened from what you think it means. Write down the observable fact, then your interpretation. “They were quiet in the meeting” is an observation. “They do not care” is a conclusion that needs checking.
3. Make room for another explanation. Before acting on your first answer, name one other possibility and ask a question that could help you distinguish between them.
4. Let the answer finish. After asking a question, leave a little silence. Then reflect back what you heard: “Have I understood that correctly?” A pause does not need rescuing just because it feels awkward.
5. Give curiosity a next step. If a question needs more information, agree on what you will find out, who will do it, and when you will reconnect. Staying curious does not mean leaving someone waiting indefinitely.
