Small Talk is More Than a Small Kindness
In which we find the salvific enchantment of conversation both in this world and in the Hundred Acre Wood
One day last December, I was at the gas station for groceries (that’s how we do it in the Midwest). I was not in a good headspace, having just finished my second trip of the day to the kids’ doctor. There’s a specific parental panic in discovering ear infections on Friday afternoons; you had better get into the office ASAP or else risk an urgent care visit over the weekend. You just don’t mess around.
This also happened to be the first day of winter break and our household was woefully unprepared. I grabbed some bananas and milk, placed them by the cash register, and rifled through my wallet to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, I was startled by the cashier’s voice,
“Gotta stock up on food now that the kids are off school!” she said.
“Absolutely…” I began uncertainly. Then, gathering confidence, “You know they’re going to be eating all. Day. Long”
“Isn’t that the truth. I leave for work in the morning and the kitchen is trashed by the time I get home.” the cashier continued. “How can they even eat that many things in one shift?” She handed me the grocery bag. “Have a great day. And good luck.” We both laughed and I wished her the same.
I walked back to my car ten pounds lighter than before. Something sacred had just happened.
I don’t feel like small talk has ever quite recovered from pandemic life. For so long, it was physically and emotionally stifled; it became very, very easy to get through most errands without interaction. I was among the introverts who rejoiced at the beginning of all that, but quickly became disillusioned. Now, even as the world has inched back towards normalcy, interpersonal interactions still don’t seem the same. There’s just a lot less conversation.
That’s why I was startled by the cashier. She didn’t have to say anything; she wasn’t obligated to do anything more than process my transaction and offer a receipt. But instead of sticking to obligation she extended an offer of connection. We immediately found the common ground of mothering kids about to commence on two weeks of constant eating. We both needed encouragement; she was brave enough to initiate a pathway to it.
That whole interaction lasted maybe 30 seconds, but on that day the offer of small talk was anything but small. I felt the human connection literally transform into energy in my body. There was a rush of hope disproportional to the number of words shared. “Small” talk is anything but small. It’s a huge kindness.
I have a hunch that this is a very specific cultural experience, that the rarity of small talk is more characteristic of westernized, individualized societies than of others. But if this is my context, a context with its specific ache, small talk is a marvel. I miss it. I cringe at the times I’ve felt too good for it. Even if “deep conversation” is something I long for, I can’t only hold out for this type of connection. It’s too infrequent. Small talk is the connection that sustains in the in between. That sustenance is different in feel, but equal in value, to the connection of in-depth conversation.
Which leads me to an enchanted view of conversation. If I really believe that human life matters, that the cosmos is different because each of us exist, then I believe our conversations have actual consequences. Unseen consequences but real, nonetheless. Acts of love and connection aren’t just a “good idea” or way to “pay it forward.” Rather, they reveal bits of the glory we are both made for and headed toward. When we extend an offer of engagement to another person, we both get to participate in what makes us human. There’s far more going on than just exchanging a few words. Words are enchanted.
In my last post I talked about faith enchantment and its parallels with Winnie the Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood. The enchantment I felt in my moment of small talk is an enchantment constantly at work in that world. The animals are never without this kindness. Pooh and Piglet like to take walks together, and Pooh’s dialogue tends to ramble nonsensically. But that’s because the point of their conversation isn’t about where it’s going, it’s about the fact that it’s happening. Their verbal exchanges connect them, providing companionship in a world woven with friendship. On any given day, companionship is the tallest order, the point of it all, and everyone’s greatest delight.
Why would the author design a world like this? Maybe because it’s also a desire of our hearts. We want to wake up and find people waiting to wander the woods with us. We want assurance that, even when alone, we are never far from connection. There is enchantment in imagining ourselves in a world with currency like this.
I’m totally on Team Small Talk. I know I could be doing more to actively bring it to the interactions in my day. I want to claim shyness, but I’m getting too old for that excuse. I do know that the world is desperately lonely and that the solutions aren’t all insurmountable. They just take a little bravery, and a little belief in the enchanting prospect that our words are building bridges that the past has cracked.