Plants Grow Where They Belong

A Lovely Tiny Interaction

Having dropped my car off at Pep Boys for a tire rotation, I decided to take a stroll rather than sitting in the undersized waiting room. I took an arbitrary left turn off Roswell Road onto an unknown street and followed it a bit. As I walked, my eyes were drawn to the array of left-leaning lawn signs -- these are my kinds of people, I thought to myself. Looking up, I spied an elderly couple unloading bags of cedar mulch from the backseat of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle convertible -- the husband was struggling with the weight of the bags.

I walked over, offered to help, and they thanked me. Having placed the bags strategically in the bed, we made introductions and stopped to chat. Ann asked if I was a gardener, and I said that I was. She walked me through her plants, told me of her weeding challenges, and spoke about moving her perennials to a place where they would better thrive. She then said something that struck me as an adage to live by: "Plants grow where they belong." I think that's true for all of us. Forrest, the husband, parked the VW in the garage and disappeared. Ann invited me in for coffee, and I accepted.

It was a small, well-lived-in home. The dated kitchen featured a working desk with a large flat-screen television mounted above it. Mystery books were stacked on the countertop. We sat in the living room and schmoozed. A large Bible rested on the arm of the sofa.

Ann is 84, is a member of a mahjong group, and belongs to a book club that she started 35 years ago. Speaking about the book club, she said, "The problem is that most of them are much more intellectual than I am. If a book is 'well written,' they don't care about the plot. If there is no plot, then I am not interested." Forrest, who never reappeared (apparently, he was having an allergy attack), is a tax accountant. They are both active in their church.

We spoke about mystery books, religion, and the state of our country. She said that she has never been so fearful for the future of our country. I said that I was hopeful that America would fight back. We had so little in common and discovered that we had so much in common.

After about 40 minutes, I told her I had to go pick up my car. She said, "But I never made you coffee." I said, "next time" and that she should call me when she is ready to spread the mulch on her garden.

Shortly after my visit with Ann, I happened upon a Hidden Brain podcast episode entitled "The Power of Tiny Interactions." - the light touch relationships we have in the course of everyday life: talking with the cashier at Trader Joe's, getting your skim latte from the same Starbucks barista on your way to work. According to psychologist Gillian Sandstrom, these tiny interactions can make your life "a little more joyful and maybe even a little less lonely -- they are a source of novelty and bring surprise and unpredictability into our lives."[i]

The time spent with Ann was a tiny interaction on steroids. It was filled with discovery, warmth, and humanity. It was a delightful moment of unpredictability amid my pedestrian chores. Chances are, I will never see Ann again -- although I am hoping that she will ask me to help her spread her mulch. Whatever happens next, she and Forrest are now part of my life and my story. And they have made that story sweeter and more interesting.

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[i] My weekly interaction with the Postal Worker, who single-handedly mans the small post office near our home, is a perfect example of a sweet tiny interaction. He welcomes each customer with a smile and ends each interaction with a wide grin and the words "have a glorious day." (I so admire him for doing this hundreds of times each day.) During my last visit, I learned that he was a baseball player who was called to try out for the Orioles -- but only after he had enlisted in the Navy. He says he has no regrets.