It’s interesting to try tuning in to one person at a time, throughout the day.

That doesn’t mean cottoning up to everybody. Many people really want and truly need to be left alone in their individual bubble of consciousness. Every day I navigate around folks who are clearly existing at the end of their rope. For some the greatest kindness is a good letting alone. Sometimes there are factors in the general setting, such as people being overcrowded or in a hurry. Last month I visited a large city. Strolling around town I started out giving everyone the usual nod-and-blink of basic good will. They responded with a brush-off rate of 100% until I learned the drill for that city: just hold a very soft awareness, and people will demonstrate whether they want to engage or not.

Of course, it can work the other way. There are people who are motivated to engage with me. If their approach is not quite in the zone, then my assignment might be to defuse and sidestep in a quiet way without riling them up. For example, at the stop for my bus home, with the bus approaching from a block away, there was a man in a highly elated state of agitation using aimless random aggressive utterances and gestures. He did not seem to mind when a speeding battery unicycle narrowly missed him. He was intent on staggering toward me, fiercely demanding that I tell him which was the best Disney cartoon. “‘The Little House,’ 1952,” I told him, adding in feigned panic “My God! What was THAT speeding past?” That ploy successfully redirected his attention from me to the speeding unicycle. “Why — don’t you know what that is?” he laughed. “Why that was all PHYSICS. All the world is physics — planet, sun, gravity, magnets, tides, all of it.” I hopped on the bus, saying “Eureka! THAT explains it all! Thank you.”

When people do have the initiative to reach out to me, and they are actually discerning about it, that is a pleasant surprise. This week on the bus I was deeply absorbed in a Russian book. In peripheral side awareness I also noted that a tall rugged bearded young man with a very rugged backpack passed by the empty seats and was standing right behind me. Finally when I rang the bell for my stop he swung an arm toward me with his phone face up on his palm. With some trepidation (He’s either showing me some undetermined image for an undetermined reason, or he is filming me) I glanced at his screen. It showed a literary entry with the English words “Silouan the Athonite.” What! My book was in fact Staréts Silouán, the biography of St. Silouan of Athos by Elder Sophrony. “Do you read Russian??” I asked him. He said “No, I can only sound out a few letters. But you do. How did you learn?” Before the bus reached my stop he and I had a very friendly heartfelt conversation.

Outreach seems worth a try, since we’re all obliged to share this daily life anyway. It’s good to pay attention first to the context and feel of the room, and to start with a very small low-risk step. Then when things don’t connect we can back right off if need be and reconsider strategies for next time.

At a block party a group of little kiddos, four years old or so, took turns making a running start and then with a happy shriek leaping on to the back of a smallish slender Golden Doodle. In dog culture this can mean “I am dominant! Watch me mount you!” The dog was tied to a refreshment table on a short leash, with no escape and no supervision. With each screaming rear tackle & grip from the children, the dog was wildly startled and stood there trembling and watching out in all directions at once. The adults did not intervene. They were busy enjoying cocktails and chatting with other grownups. Hoping to spare the dog some spine and nerve harm, and hoping to spare the kids from having a more assertive dog flip around and bite them some day, I gave the parents a reassuring smile and said to the children “Hi there! Would you like to hear a little tip about greeting a gentle dog like this one?” The parents gave me a freezing glare. Snatching up their children and dog they took their beverages and marched away.

During life in campus housing, with tiny individual rooms and a shared central kitchen, I overheard a new neighbor move in to the adjacent unit on the other side of my wall. I wrote a greeting card with a welcome to the building, and left it at the door. Soon I heard the sound of my card being torn up, and the new occupant storming off down the hall. According to building management, the young man complained to them saying “Who does this woman think she is? I paid for a summer’s rent. I did not pay for a RELATIONSHIP. Back in [elegant Northern European country] we don’t put up with invasions of privacy like this.” Management assured him that I was a harmless older lady, that I did things like this to people all the time, and if he ignored me I would just move on and find new targets to tamper with. At summer’s end the tenants had a building party, and Nordic Man was there downing drinks. We met and started talking, and he was surprised to discover that I was his mystery stalker. Soon he was laughing over the whole fracas as a vignette of eccentric cornball Americana: “Back home, we feel affronted even when a bus driver says ‘Good morning.’ It means he’s new at the job. We soon teach him how to behave and to leave us alone.” Another Northern European contact heard the story and laughed at me. “You left a card for a stranger? That’s insane. Over here that would be a solicitation of a salacious nature. You’re lucky that all he did was report you.” (When a new occupant moved in next door, I left another greeting card. This resident turned out to be a dignified grandfather from the Middle East, visiting the States for a short time to visit relatives. In no time, a far more elegant triptych greeting card with silver embossed Arabic calligraphy showed up at my door with a painstakingly printed message opening with “Our Dear Elder Sister, Peace and health to you! Greetings from all my family.”)

So, step by step. And things can turn out okay.

At a warehouse-turned-antique store, which sounds impressive but was in fact jammed with acres of random trivia that all needs dusting, the overhead music system started playing Aerosmith’s “Dream On” from 1973. Naturally I started humming along the base line, but our group was already about to leave the store before the over-the-top screechy wail right before the outro chorus. Meanwhile, several aisles over, a very solid looking fella about my age, in a baseball cap and shorts, started singing right along. “Every tiiiiiime I look in the mirror…” He called to mind the dads from my suburban childhood, mowing the lawn or washing the car with baseball on the transistor radio or barbecuing frankfurters for all to eat with lawn darts and beer. It was charming to see him checking out the fishing pole collection while singing right out happily off key to these plaintive lyrics about the evanescence of time. Before ambling to the exit I sidled up to him and whispered “We could totally flash mob this.” He gave me a startled look. “I know all the words,” I added, pointing to the ceiling. He cheered right up. “You BETTER know all the words. I’ll be judgin ya.”

During a conference I overheard a family checking in to the hotel reception of our building, and caught some linguistically unique signature consonants (zh, shch, and so on) in their hushed speech together. After they finished their check-in and were having a look around, I sidled up and asked what language they were speaking. The family snapped to attention on high alert. The father looked me over carefully and finally said “Russian.” I started chatting them up, they looked happy and relieved, and we had a nice visit.

One of our trucking companies sends delivery drivers in pairs, and over the years we’ve built up a good friendly rapport. When our office holds a conference there are always cold beverages and sometimes snacks left over. It turns out that drivers are very pleased when I bring them cold drinks and some extra cookies or chips. This week I greeted the truck with my favorite driver pair, young guys with a great sense of humor. This time only one of them got out of the truck. After the delivery I handed him snacks for them both, joking that I’d managed to save some of Jax’s favorite soda. “He likes his crackin’ cold, so I kept it in the fridge til the last minute.” His partner hesitated, and said “I’m on my own today because Jax died.” Jax was just finishing a shift on the road when another truck went out of control and hit his rig. For a long minute his wingman and I just stood there looking at the snacks and Jax’s soda with the planet being a fragile place. I gave him a hug, and he drove away. Next time I’ll go out and get him a turkey sandwich.

A white coffee mug showing the words Moscow / Москвá in English and Cyrillic, with a picture map of the city from centuries ago, has been in the cabinet for years. It’s a sturdy generous mug in mint new condition, but it seemed a shame to ruin the color with my daily turmeric tea. Today I packed it in my bag to donate at Goodwill. On the way I stopped at the open-air Fruit & Folks market for a produce run. The staff always lift my spirits; they are the finest hardworking young people, cheerfully lugging vegetables or Christmas trees in the hottest or coldest weather, full of hearty humor and kindness. Today they were happily listening to the sound track of some wildly popular full length classic animated film. While the cashier and I swapped stories about seasoning our cast iron pans, the young manager burst out with protests: No, we must not listen to the sound track of this followup sequel! Only the original film is superior — all else is a poor runner up! The staff protested right back. Spirited banter ensued with votes shouted in from all corners of the store. Finally the staff said “Oh fine, Boss — only YOU decide which animation is best? Thank you Comrade Stalin!” At that I whisked out the Moscow cup and awarded it to the manager. Since so much of humor is timing, complete hilarity ensued. Not only was everyone laughing away, but the manager was surprisingly pleased by his award.

At the floor of the lower parking garage, where car break-ins and bicycle theft and vandalism and even campfires have been a sad cause of everyday caution for us employees, the elevator doors opened. A very tall fit Black gentleman beelined on to the elevator, saw me, and froze. In these troubled times it was impossible for me to imagine how tense that moment must have been for him. “Howdy, Sir,” I said with a wave. “What floor would you like? And please don’t mind me: I’m just riding the elevator to test these access cards at all the levels.” Social context had given me all the advantage: in this encounter, the odd fish was me. Usually when someone on a bottom floor summons an elevator down by pushing the UP button, why in the world would there be a passenger already on it, and where did they come from — the sewer? From Hell? Second, unlike me he was not on the elevator just lurking around. Third, he had an especially good-natured look, in a uniform with company name and badge, clearly headed somewhere. Fourth, his chosen destination floor happened to be an executive suite filled with expensive plants, and his arms were full of gardening gear with potting soil amendments and a large watering can. “You, on the other hand,” I added, “are on an important mission to save some plants.” By then we were all smiles, lit up with shared enthusiasm of the beautiful window greenery upstairs. As he stepped off we said goodbye and I went on testing cards.

Before the doors closed he turned back and said something extraordinary. “You may not be saving plants. But you may be saving the planet.”