December 1
Be patient toward everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not search now for answers that cannot yet be given to you, because you could not live them. Live the questions now.
Letters to a Young Poet
Listening mode
Be patient toward everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not search now for answers that cannot yet be given to you, because you could not live them. Live the questions now.
Sometimes you get an answer before you can do anything with it. Someone tells you what they would do in your place, and it sounds reasonable. You agree, perhaps even with relief. The next morning the question is back all the same, unchanged, as if it hadn't caught any of the conversation.
A right answer is not yet one you can live in. Often it presupposes a person who is already further along than you: who has let go of something you are still holding on to, or trusts something that is still foreign to you. Until then it remains a sentence you know.
That doesn't make the waiting any easier. An open question can also become an excuse, a state you settle into because every decision would cost something. From the outside, ripening and evasion look alike. From the inside, sometimes, too.
You tend to notice the difference in passing. A question that has been with you for a long time is, at some point, worded a little differently than at the start. One word has dropped out. Another has been added that you wouldn't have known back then.
