Physical questions
This morning, my three-year-old held up two Lego witches hats, bases pressed together to form a diamond shape. "I've got a question for you," he said, offering me this construction. When opened, the makeshift container revealed two glittering red pom-poms nestled inside.
Perhaps he meant "present" rather than "question." But there's something appealing in this idea that a question could be a physical thing, something to be opened rather than answered.
The Poetry of Objects
Children often experiment with the meaning of objects. A block becomes a phone, a blanket becomes a cave, two witch hats become... what exactly? A vessel? A secret keeper? A question mark turned three-dimensional?
The beauty lies partly in the uncertainty. Like all good poetry, the meaning isn't fixed but floating, dependent on the space between creator and observer.
Questions as Containers
What my son handed me was a kind of riddle made manifest. Consider the elements:
- Two witch hats: symbols of magic and transformation
- The diamond shape: precious, geometric, complete
- The hidden red pom-poms: surprising, delightful, inexplicable
It's a question that contains its own answer, though that answer remains beautifully obscure.
The Space Between
In the gap between "question" and "present" lies a world of possibility. And what is a gift if not a kind of question? It asks:
- What does this mean to you?
- What will you make of this?
- How will this change the space between us?
And what is a question if not a kind of gift? It offers:
- A new way of seeing
- A path to wonder
- An invitation to play
The Answer in the Opening
There's something perfect about the fact that this question required physical interaction - it had to be opened to be understood. Is this what questions do? Open something in us?
I don't think the red pom-poms were the answer to the question. I think perhaps the opening itself was the answer. The joy of finding something unexpected in an unexpected place.
Creating Space for Physical Questions
How do we honor these moments of material poetry? How do we encourage this kind of thinking that transcends traditional language?
The Question Remains
I still don't know exactly what question my son was asking with his witch-hat construction. Perhaps that's precisely the point. The best questions aren't always meant to be answered - sometimes they're meant to be opened, explored, wondered about.
In the end, he gave me both a question and a gift.
Questions can be gifts and gifts can be questions, and understanding comes not from answering but from opening.