Life with Questions

The wind is whipping savagely today-- it's an ugly snarl of weather compared to the gentle, sunny days I've known so far in San Diego.  In Tennessee I would worry about tornadoes.  In Miami I would have thought of tropical storms.  But here, I guess it's just wind?

Living in a new place gives you so much to learn.  Of course, there are the weather patterns-- which winds mean what, the cloud color that foretells rain, the quality of sunshine that will last for days.  There are the traffic patterns-- how to get where, what part of town to avoid when, which roads make good stand-bys and back-ups.  And then there are the people patterns-- who lives, who thrives, who fights and struggles.  Who buys what, and where.  Who is out on my street - and where are they from - and where are they going?
Even with the howling wind, I hear strains of the trucks that cruise the neighboring streets, selling something (I haven't actually seen them yet, just heard their competing tunes).  It's not the sing-song of an ice cream truck, but a trumpeting patriotic strain of bugling.  Its competitor (I imagine) toodles something similar to "Do your ears hang low?"  My roommate thinks they're vegetable vendor trucks.
Most afternoons, the little girl next door spends some time with an improvised tetherball.  It's something ball-ish, round, wrapped in grocery sacks, linked together and tied to a pole.

I spent a lot of the past week trying to figure out where I would be living for the imminent future here in San Diego.  (For those who don't know, my current house is going into foreclosure, so I needed a new place starting in February.  And God has provided!)  I looked, I prayed, I met potential roommates.  And I kept wondering, "Okay, really, am I here to be seriously invested in my community?  Or am I just going to live there?" 

In the past, I've let myself be content with unanswered questions-- questions about the veggie trucks, or the neighbors, or the girl playing plastic-bag tetherball.  I ask the questions - in my head, or maybe to a few friends - and the fact that I have the slip of information to ask makes me feel smart and observant.  I live there.  And I spin some stories out in my head.

I don't think that's the point of living, or the point of questions.  Questions are meant to create opportunities and incite something different.  Even when what they incite is not an answer, in the strictest sense, questions push us forward and outward, to a place of risk.  So, though I'm leaving Lantana Drive, I take questions with me.  Questions to ask and questions to live and questions that invite me to relate to other humans with a little extra love and concern.