own.

Which part do I own? Which question, sent, now belongs to me? What narrow pathway is mine to navigate, simply because someone else did not?

There is a time when we believe a question becomes a command, that the act of sending on a sentence, with a lilt at the end, is the hook that will grab, catch and net you into changing your focus from what you were doing, to what someone else is needing.

Did this happen when we were toddlers, our all important ‘no’ dismissed, discouraged and disciplined? Was it when we were disappearing teens, our rooms blockaded and walled with music and posters, the emerging from that cocoon a time to ask for a favor, an errand, easier to ask then to know what someone else is experiencing, feeling.

Perhaps now, we do the same, jump to answer a rope of questions instead of asking one. My one question is this: What would happen if we took the hook and gently tossed it back into the air, the filament of need floating back to the one who cast it, who already knows what to do, and can do it?

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if someone wasn’t there to catch the question, who would take up the flag of figuring it out, and run it to the end of the field? By answering, we take away that goal, that touchdown, that win.

The part I own is to answer my own question and not take the field.

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