Yesterday, I quoted Rilke to my son. Misquoted, most likely, just the gist about living the questions.
My boy’s questions are borne of anxiety, and anxiety is something I understand though mine is centered on other things while his revolve around deep questions he cannot resolve, fears that he is not doing it right.
We all have these questions and sometimes I engage and try to answer each one as they come, fast and furious, and sometimes I remain silent because I am processing or maybe I am not even entirely listening because I also have things I need to focus on, questions of my own I need answered.
And finally I look up at my boy who is now taller than me with tears streaming down his face and tell him I don't have all the answers. I don't always know what to say.
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