Curiosity
Whenever I go to a party where I’m expected to mingle with people I don’t know, a
pattern
always emerges:
1) I ask questions.
2) I listen to the answers, which leads me to ask more questions.
3) When (if) the conversation turns to me and what I do, the conversation
dies
quite quickly.
Why is that? Why are people delighted to tell me about their week in Maine or their stay in the hospital or the journey their latest art piece has made across the country in great detail? Why are they eager to tell me about their family business or how they met their spouse or the book they’re working on? And then fall silent when it’s their turn to find out about me?
A few answers:
I am genuinely curious.
(It’s true: I can’t help but be interested in people.)
I know how to listen.
(A very useful skill in my profession — but also in my life as a human being.)
I don’t do boredom well.
(Also true: I’m compelled to ask questions just to keep myself occupied.)
They,
like everyone on the planet,
love to talk about themselves.
(It’s a great gift, I believe, to give people a chance to do this.)
(The fact that so many people talk so much when given this chance implies the chance doesn’t come their way often enough.)
They are — what? Shy? (Not when they’re talking about themselves.) Uninterested? Unable to formulate productive questions? Bad listeners? Not curious?
Whatever the answer, it’s
sad.
Especially if you’re a teacher.
Because being curious is a pre-requisite to
paying attention.
And paying attention — being interested and being able to see and listen and stay present — is an
act of love.
And being seen and heard lovingly is a
developmental necessity.
And learning is development, and students are nothing if not bundles of developmental necessity.
(Teachers are developing, too. So are administrators. And so it goes, on and on, an endless need for loving attention and curiosity.)
Where is your curiosity?