The surprising wonder of sunrises and strangers …

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Once upon a time, circling Holmes Lake at dawn was a solitary experience for me.   

These days, however, when I walk around the lake path I pause to say hello to Barb and her pup, Reacher, a Rottweiler who has won countless awards. I holler encouragement to the woman who jogs around the trail at least four times each morning. I stroll a bit with Mike and his German Shepherd, Fiona, and take a picture of the guy who asks – at least once a week – for a photograph of the fish he caught that day.

These moments of easy banter are not particularly momentous or consequential. But lately I’ve been considering otherwise, embracing the potential value and wonder of our simple, basic connections – with strangers.

I read somewhere that we are losing the ability to chat, to ask superficial questions that offer a bridge to polite nattering: “Can you believe this weather?” How’s your day going so far?”  “What about those Huskers?”  

I don’t mean to discount the value of deeper discussion – yes, rich and meaningful dialogue is critical.  

But there’s a lovely, even profound civility to the act of reaching out to someone you don’t know.  Offering up a nod or a smile.  Chatting and talking about inconsequential matters like the weather forecast, the changing seasons, colors of the morning sky.

Over the past year, almost every morning as I walked the lake trail, three or four young guys have been jogging around me – and I was sure they paid no attention to me.  Then one day my dog had to stay home because she hurt her paw, and as the young men dashed around me that morning – a voice emerged from the dawn’s dark: “Where’s your dog?  Is she ok?”

I told them she was fine and that her name was Zuzu, and ever since they say hello to Zu every loop around the lake.

Journalist David Sax – who specializes in writing about popular culture – notes that, not so long ago, it was impossible to go through life without speaking to a variety of strangers in your life: Bus drivers, baristas, bartenders, receptionists, store cashiers.  Today our experiences are increasingly insular as we shop, travel, eat – walk around the lake – wearing headphones and never uttering a sound to another human being.  Then, to complicate matters even further, the pandemic arrived and suddenly every physical encounter with a stranger carried the potential of death. 

In a world where we seem to be witnessing the slow and frigid death of social closeness, however, strangers are possibly one of the richest and most important resources we have. They have the potential of connecting us to the larger community in fresh ways, of bringing us unexpected surprise and variety. 

If we engaged only with the people we knew, our world would be small, Sax says. “That leap of faith toward the unknown ‘other’ is what allows us to grow beyond the family unit, tribe or even nation.” 

I’m not sure my morning chats will solve the world’s problems. God forbid we talk about anything substantive like politics or religion.  But I see them as building blocks in our social contract.

“Talking to a stranger pulls you into a shared humanity, it’s a source of creative energy, it opens your world,” writes Kio Stark, author of When Strangers Meet.  “It’s a beautiful interruption in the expected narrative of your daily life – and theirs. Talking to strangers wakes you up.”

Several months ago, I had a rather unpleasant encounter with a guy whose two sizeable dogs were running off leash at the lake. I expressed my displeasure – then he expressed his displeasure at my displeasure. Later, when I saw him return the dogs to his van, I noted his bumper sticker proclaiming, “F *** Biden.”  Well dang, I thought in judgment. Of course. 

The next time I saw him coming along the path (his dogs on leash), I took a deep breath of daring.  “There’s the dog police,” he proclaimed.  “There’s the guy who apparently listened to the dog police,” I replied. There was a deadly pause, and then – miracle of miracles – we both laughed. 

This week New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote a column he called, “Why Your Social Life is Not What it Should Be.”  In the article Brooks cited Nicholas Epley, a behavioral scientist whose research determined that the great majority of people under-estimate how much they will enjoy chatting with a stranger – hence the use of headphones, cell phones, earplugs.  Only 7 percent said they would talk to a stranger in a waiting room, only 24 percent on a train.  (Strangely, there was no data for talking to a stranger as you walk around a lake.)

The good news, Epley’s research indicated, is that people are systemically mistaken – as even the most anxiety-drenched people reported they actually enjoyed an exchange when they took a risk. 

Brooks concludes: “My general view is that the fate of America will be importantly determined by how we treat each other in the smallest acts of daily life.”

Small acts of daily life come in all shapes and sizes, of course, and in all kinds of places … your gym, bus stop, bar, coffeeshop. After our morning walks, at least once a week, Zuzu and I swing around a local coffeeshop – where all the coffee servers now crowd around the tiny drive-through window to offer Zu a dog biscuit and ask about our sunrise that day.  

Bottom line, I am a confirmed introvert who loves sitting in the stillness of the lake and watching the dawn sky come to life.  But there is also something quite powerful – when hundreds of books and magazine articles address the breakdown of social relationships – in pushing past my default discomfort and in reaching out:

• To the woman who wears the same orange shirt each day as she runs along the trail, shyly whispers hello, and to whom I have wished a daily “good morning” for more than a year.  
• To the lovely couple with two black poodles who rescued my lost car keys. 
• To the woman, dressed in a long dress and hijab, who stood beside me one particularly lovely dawn and spoke haltingly but clearly, “I am new to Nebraska. Is it always so beautiful here?” – and to whom I gave a hug, said I was so glad she had come to our community and never saw again.

But that’s ok, because tomorrow at sunrise on my walk around Holmes Lake, I know there will always be a new stranger coming along the path.