May You Be Curious

Beautiful handwriting doesn’t soften sharp, cutting words. Curiosity can.

I was in a state of emergency, albeit an invisible one. Neither my hypoglycemia nor my TBI recovery give wiggle room for a delayed intake of protein. [Both factors compounded by my first-trimester-empty-stomach-nausea phase, but I’m writing that factoid in disappearing ink because this article isn’t the way I want to share that news]. After an hour-plus acupuncture appointment, my stash of macadamias and pecans weren’t cutting it. I knew I wouldn’t make it through a 30-minute drive home. I needed to park and hustle to buy something substantial, stat. The danger alarm pounded in my ears.

There was juuuuuuust enough space at the end of the row of parked cars to prevent my rear from blocking the pedestrian access on the corner. As I crept into place, I didn’t sense contact with the beige Bug’s pliable bumper; I visualized at least two inches remaining between us. But I discovered the end-to-end kiss when I walked toward the bakery. I hesitated in the middle of the street and wondered if it was worth spouting another dose of fossil fuel into the air only to reverse an inch. The answer was red alert: I must eat. I took some relief from the fact that they had at least eight inches in front to shimmy forward and out, worst case. Off I went for a take-out operation that would be so fast, the Bug’s owner wouldn’t even know I’d parked behind them.

How on earth does a sandwich with three ingredients betwixt the sliced potato roll bun take more than twenty minutes to assemble when at least three employees are available and uninterrupted by other duties or patrons? I sat in the center of the “to go” bench by the door in case I fainted in either direction. I considered inquiring with the sandwich builder(s) in the interest of the Bug owner (and my blood sugar), but I quietly took some deep breaths to steady my urgency. A spike in cortisol wouldn’t help. Bagged lunch in hand, I Hobbit-ran back to the car and exclaimed “Dammit!” when I saw that the Bug had gone. I really wanted to get there first.

After a visual check of my front bumper to ensure I hadn’t scratched them (not a lick), I discovered a folded piece of paper pinned under the windshield wiper. I plucked it out and flung it into the car on my way to sitting down and devouring 90% of the sandwich at record speed. I buckled my seat belt, too, in case someone else wanted the spot.

While I chewed, I imagined a few variations of the folded message. I also contemplated several choose-your-own-adventure paths for either destroying it (without reading), or having my husband read it once I returned home. As a “words of affirmation” love language-ite, I know myself to be sensitive to vitriolic messages. I didn’t doubt that my close-up parking possibly stoked some discomfort, so what other than snark would someone take their time to write and deposit? That said, I maintained a sliver of optimism that it could say something warm and cheeky, or even flirtatious like “Thanks for the smooch, silver fox! xox” (not me—the car).

The note balanced like a rigid ballerina on its crisp corners from 3:00pm until 10:00am, poised where it landed on the passenger floor. I decided to read it the next day upon arrival to the yoga studio. Prepared to be amused by its contents, my chest rattled with a flash of lightning as I ingested the person’s slanted words.

A previous iteration of me, maybe one as recent as a year ago, would’ve stirred and sank into the quicksand of shame and indignation. That Christine would’ve allowed somebody’s self-expression to upset her internal equilibrium—like last spring, when an off-kilter neighbor spewed poisonous barbs via an unexpected email. I’d lost sleep for days while worrying about another encounter with that person in the apartment building stairwell, not to mention feeling the repeat jolts and punches of utter bewilderment from the mutual misunderstanding.

I re-read the note, re-folded the note, re-chucked it to the floor. I acknowledged my emotions, felt them, and let them pass.

I pondered the entire scenario with its myriad truths and perspectives while I waited for yoga class to begin. Throughout my yearlong study and practice of the Non-Violent Communication method, I’ve learned that people constantly make requests for the betterment of their lives. Sometimes, as a listener/receiver, you have to sift through the “shitty first drafts” of a person’s attempt to state their request, especially if they’re unaware of what they need. Oftentimes, reflective questions assist the speaker to realize their present need, then better articulate their request. This process requires deliberate curiosity: the lean toward and lean into, to connect and pierce through the surface-level appearance of a person’s complaint, criticism, or condescension.

Curiosity awakens the little detective in us. The scientist. The archaeologist. The explorer. The observer. The optimist.

I thought about how the note’s author sounded frustrated, and how their feelings were valid, too. Non-Violent Communication overlaps well with Brené Brown’s research on vulnerability and the human spectrum of emotions. I clicked into the possibility that the person felt hurt and/or targeted. I wondered if a big distress had happened earlier in their day or, more likely, far earlier in their life.

I decided not to ascribe intent. I remembered that a need-request combo ultimately isn’t a personal attack. The note wasn’t about me. This definitely takes practice because humans are human, i.e. reactive via trained stress responses. By honing my NVC filter, I can neutrally—better, empathically—witness a so-called adversary’s displeasure and see beyond that to discover the person’s truth like a hidden image in a Magic Eye poster.

Curiosity helps me engage, and it also acts as a force field which enables me to maintain safe, healthy, kind boundaries.

On one level, I’m concerned about how this person communicates with others likely reflects how they speak to themselves—ouch. Why is this verbal violence socially permissible? Why do we tolerate this kind of behavior amongst ourselves, and toward ourselves inwardly? (I’m no exception).

Furthermore, their mini-missive misses the pulse on any perspectives beyond their assumption, the storyline they invented to vindicate their penned vent. What’s blocking our collective, kaleidoscopic balance of multiple truths (and of multitudes and interconnection in general)? What keeps locking our narratives into narrow projections of cruelty and thoughtlessness?

On another level, they fulfilled their “blessing” by leaving their note on my windshield. …Dramatic irony?

Five minutes after reading it, I decided not to be confused about my good-ness or my sincere care for the author. I’m not confused that they’re also good and kind and lovable. I know we’re all trying our best at any moment with our given circumstances and available resources. And no, I’m not always that quick to shift from defensive to compassionate…as my husband knows. Did I mention: it takes practice.

I wasn’t, and am not now, responsible for their feelings, regardless of my incidental invitation for them to puzzle (successfully!) out of a wee escape game. I take responsibility for my haste and desperation overriding the option to improve my parking job. I take responsibility for not self-advocating when the seemingly straightforward sandwich took a torturous amount of time to prepare behind the counter. (They were doing their best, too!)

Dear mystery writer, thank you for the reminder to exhibit loving kindness toward myself and my surroundings, unmet strangers and goofy parkers included.

Stay curious out there, friends… Curiosity creates space: room to wonder and wander. Cats might not have a great track record with it, but I believe curiosity makes all the difference for the human experience.