You should have a curiosity compass
Checking-in with curiosity; the pitfalls of curiosity as a team sport; and a 30-second rabbit hole.
A large part of why I write about curiosity is because I find the societal signs of diminishing curiosity disconcerting. This loss of curiosity isn’t always intentional, or rooted in something sinister, however. Sometimes it’s as simple as life gets busy, the world gets serious, and curiosity suddenly feels like a luxury that will have to wait for a calmer time.
It’s normal for our curiosity to ebb-and-flow at times, but part of why that ebb occurs is because very few of us take the time to identify how our own curiosity works — it’s just something that’s there, or isn’t.
Which is why I wanted to ask if you have a curiosity compass, or a way that you regularly check-in with your curiosity?
The reason I ask is because I’ve found it common for people to think of curiosity as something whimsical and fun; it’s something we associate with childhood. But curiosity plays a large role in adulthood, too, and checking in with the state of your own curiosity can provide vital information that goes deeper than just identifying what’s currently occupying your mind.
For example, curiosity can give us insight into our mental health. Commonly, depression and anxiety can flatten our curiosity as we turn inward. And in these moments if our curiosity goes unchecked, it can also veer into something that resembles obsession as we find ourselves hyper-focusing on topics that only serve to degrade our mental health further. Noticing these shifts, before they become entrenched patterns, is useful personal information to have.
Curiosity also facilitates an understanding of our place in the world. If you find yourself consistently saying that you don’t really care about headline news, or don’t think you have the time to care, then, congratulations; you’re living far better than most. Not many people are lucky enough to be entirely unscathed by world events, so hopefully this knowledge can be transferred to your day-to-day life in the form of perspective and balance.
I could continue listing ways that curiosity can be a guide to our own well-being, but you get the point: curiosity is an invisible thread that leads to, and contributes to, so many different aspects of our life. This thread is why I’m a strong proponent of creating your own curiosity compass as an easy way to check-in with not only your curiosity, but also your self.
Since this may seem like a foreign concept to some, I’m going to explain the three guidelines that form my own curiosity compass, in the hopes that it will get the ball rolling for you.
My guidelines are simple, and are as follows:
Curiosity doesn’t have to be serious; it’s okay if it is serious
Nobody needs to be curious about the same things as you; it’s okay if they are
Whenever and wherever your curiosity sparks; follow it*
You’re probably thinking: So essentially there are no rules, and anything goes; why doesn’t she just say that?
It’s a fair conclusion. But sometimes the concept of there are no rules can feel vague and overwhelming in its expansiveness, and the intended effect of creating freedom actually feels stifling, and induces paralysis. This is why I prefer to use the above guidelines instead. By creating a user-friendly framework for my brain, and a touchstone I can easily refer to, I eschew the pitfalls that inherently arise when attempting anything without boundaries. What can I say; some brains thrive on structure!
This structure also serves as an in-built reminder for me that there’s no such thing as right or wrong when it comes to curiosity. This may sound like an obvious observation to some of you but, if you’re like me, then it’s possible you’ve found yourself wrong-footed by curiosity at times, and contemplating if maybe you’re actually doing it wrong. This doubt usually creeps in when something I’m curious about just isn’t aligning with what others are curious about. Inevitably, this doubt leads to an existential spiral that leaves me contemplating what’s wrong with me, and unhelpful questions float through my head asking, why doesn’t anybody care about what I care about? Or, why am I not interested in this story I’m seeing everyone talk about?
But then I grab the reins, refer to my curiosity compass, and remind myself that curiosity is actually deeply personal, and often experienced in solitude, in our own head. Only in the past decade or so has it become normalized to display our interests and inner thoughts in a public way. In reality, it’s extremely rare that we’re all curious about the same thing, at the same time. Of course it happens, and certain topics bubble to the surface and create cultural zeitgeist moments, or viral social media posts, but those are outlier events.
Falsely believing that curiosity should primarily be experienced as a group sport likely stems from the strange, parasocial relationships that social media fosters. It’s made it easy to find someone—anyone—that we can identify with at all times, regardless of topic. When we can’t find someone to align with in our own circles, we hop online seeking empty validation from people we’ve never met. It can feel good in the moment, sure, but it can eventually create unnecessary feelings of isolation within your actual, real-life group of friends when they don’t share your particular curiosity of the week.
These moments of misalignment, despite being entirely normal, are when I find my three guidelines come in the most handy because I can easily remind myself that, no, I’m not doing curiosity wrong; and, no, I haven’t lost my curiosity just because I’m not relating to what my friends are curious about. As long as my brain is taking me down rabbit holes and tangents, I’m well within the parameters of healthy curiosity. Plus, it’s actually beneficial to explore our own rabbit holes in solitude. Of course it could be fun to have others down there with us, but it’s also important to carve out space for our own thoughts and interests, away from the influence of others’ thoughts and interests.
Influence-free curiosity brings me to the asterisk that I placed after my third guideline — whenever and wherever your curiosity sparks; follow it.
With so many of us consuming the same information from broadly similar algorithms, and sharing anything and everything with everyone, I’ve recently added the following caveat: yes, follow your curiosity whenever and wherever it takes you — as long as it’s your curiosity that you’re following.
But how does one make that distinction? My unscientific approach has simply been to break curiosity into two different subgroups: active and passive.
I think of active curiosity as something that your brain firmly latches onto that you can’t shake. This can either happen spontaneously as your mind wanders, or it can happen when a sentence you’re reading inspires you to think beyond the page, or look more deeply via another resource. It can happen when a concept that intrigues you while listening to a podcast requires a bit more digging and contemplation later on, or it can even happen when a friend posts their meal on instagram and it’s at a restaurant in a city you know nothing about, but suddenly find yourself googling. Essentially, it’s curiosity that requires you to look, and think, outside the box you’re currently exploring.
Passive curiosity, on the other hand, is when you’re mildly curious about something in the moment, but not because it’s actually inspiring any feelings of true curiosity inside your mind. Really, all that’s happened is someone who’s asking for attention has put something in front of you, and your monkey mind obediently jumped on it. Once you close the app, the website, or the magazine, however, you’ve already forgotten about whatever it was you couldn’t put down a minute ago. This is a sign that your curiosity wasn’t actually piqued, it was just passively occupied.
To be clear, neither is right or wrong, and I’m not making a value judgment about which type of curiosity is better or worse — both serve a purpose. As we established earlier, my brain thrives on structure so, naturally, when I found myself personally needing a way to categorize two different types of curiosity that I’d noticed within myself, I devised a framework.
Since creating these distinctions, I’ve noticed that my active curiosity can go seemingly endlessly, whereas my passive curiosity eventually reaches a tipping point and burns out.
For example, as someone who used to work for MTV, I will always have one eye on pop culture, and what the masses are consuming and discussing. Rarely is anything geared towards me and my 40-something lifestyle anymore, but I’m still curious. In general, though, the topics covered are no longer relevant to where I’ve chosen to invest my energy, and therefore they only require a general awareness to satisfy my curiosity, rather than a deep-dive. But sometimes I find myself scrolling further into the abyss, reading stories about someone I’ve never heard of, or perusing a reality show love-triangle timeline that means nothing to me, or my life.
Eventually, something shifts inside of me and the rubber band-like nature of curiosity eventually snaps. Once it snaps, I feel myself getting anxious, and I notice my eyes glazing, reading only one or two words as I continue to compulsively scroll, eager to experience that dopamine kick that comes from spotting something that does resonate and feel exciting. This is when curiosity crosses into the realm of addiction, which is unsurprising — it’s what social media is designed to do, after all; we know this now.
Recently I’ve been paying attention to this shift — that moment when my passive curiosity has had enough, and my brain is telling me it needs to move on. It’s reminded me of how good the body is at sending us signs, if only we pause to listen.
It turns out, curiosity is sending us signals, too, which is all the more reason to check-in with it regularly.
So now that you have a better understanding of how my curiosity compass works, I want to encourage you to create your own if it’s a concept that intrigues you. It’s great if my compass also works for you, but it’s even better to figure out the nuance of what works for your own curiosity and brain.
And if you find the idea of creating a curiosity compass incredibly tedious, that’s okay, too; just be curious about why that is! As long as you’re exercising your curiosity in some small way, then you can’t go wrong.
30-second Rabbit Hole:
This week, I had one of the aforementioned rare, dovetail moments where something I’m curious about is something that millions of others are buzzing about as well — Lena Dunham’s memoir, Famesick.
I’ve been listening to the audiobook version in small chunks for a couple of weeks now, and it’s as good, eye-opening and, at times, harrowing, as everyone told me it would be. Don’t worry, I’m not about to write an essay on the memoir — there are plenty of words out there on the subject already.
Why I’m mentioning it is because I’ve been down an all-things Lena Dunham rabbit hole off-and-on, which is unsurprising. But what did surprise me was how curious I would end up being about the art her parents make. After a few references to their own artistic lives, I had to pause the audiobook and consult google.
I was particularly intrigued by her father, Carroll Dunham, and his paintings. (Above is a glimpse into Carroll Dunham's art world — the PG version, at least. If you find the evolution of an artist fascinating, then you’ll love his website. All of his art is broken out by decade, making it easy to study his changing styles, and also identify his ongoing preoccupations. Whether his paintings are to your taste or not is almost beside the point; it’s just fascinating to see where his own curiosity has led him artistically for over 50 years. What a gift it would be if every artist, across all genres, kept such well-documented archives for public perusal.
Laurie Simmons, Lena’s mom, has a similar website layout for her art which is equally intriguing to explore, and is a rabbit hole I’ve yet to explore fully, but am excited to have in reserve.