For the second instalment of my Sparked series: The Joy of Small Things by Hannah Jane Parkinson. I absolutely devoured this book, a perfect combination of chicken soup for the soul, paired with Parkinson's absolutely phenomenal writing style, and bulls-eye analogies. I deeply admire Parkinson's gift for so aptly capturing rich, layered emotions in short, concise sentences, and her precise, almost skilful use of vocabulary only adds to the allure of her writing. Similar to the way one would regard Van Gogh's works with an air of reverence, I treat my little paperback copy of The Joy of Small Things as if it is a bible containing the secrets of life itself, poring over its pages and trying to absorb every little nuance of Parkinson's writing into my own authorial voice through osmosis.
Although I share Parkinson's love for vivid imagery and emotion-centric description (her essays felt like stellar exemplars that would leave my GCSE Descriptive Composition essay weeping in shame), I, unfortunately, do not share her ability to contain my thoughts in a concise and direct manner. Brace yourself, because I suspect that this will be the first of many essays all dedicated to the creative genius that is Hannah Jane Parkinson.
Similar to how Ann Liang's This Time It's Real is a love letter to love, Parkinson's The Joy of Small Things is a love letter to life itself, the textbook definition of the phrase "zeal for life". The little yellow paperback is the literary equivalent of a Swiss army knife: a crash course in gratitude, a lesson in anthropology, an exhibition of the art of writing, a pick-me-up for the bad days, and a celebration for the good ones. Greedily absorbing every drop of joy embedded within the pages left me hungry for more, so now, it's my turn to try to do justice to the little blessings in life.
The Joy of Strangers
I am, usually, a big fan of people. But this isn't to say that I am constantly appreciative of the presence of fellow homosapiens; when I find myself on the wrong end of an endless cafeteria queue, I (somewhat grotesquely) find myself wishing I had the power of a Thanos snap. However, this mild annoyance soon dissipates, and I return to being a facultative extrovert. One of the biggest joys of interacting with others, I find, is the giddy excitement caused by pleasant encounters with strangers.
So often we go on our way, gazes glued to our phones, paying next to zero attention to those around us. I find myself falling victim to this too, often forgoing people-watching or somewhat mindful activities in order to read or scroll through Instagram. This could quite possibly lead to my downfall as a writer: we're supposed to have our 'inspiration' antennas switched on 24/7, assimilating all we can about the behaviour of others in order to regurgitate it back out on our messily drafted manuscripts. Perhaps this is why when I do have a positive encounter with a stranger, it sticks with me far longer than a chat with an acquaintance; we don't expect anything of them, so when they do surprise us, it's an unexpected gift.
There's so much joy to be found in the company of others, in the potential connections, in the endless possibilities. This sentiment is captured wonderfully by Emily Henry in her bestselling romance novel, People We Meet On Vacation. The protagonist, Poppy, draws a parallel between fraternizing with strangers, and the atmosphere of an airport. An airport is fizzing with possibilities. You're surrounded by people from countless different places, all unified in the purpose of trying to get somewhere, waiting to reach someone. All the little serendipitous encounters, make life a little more colourful, a little less lonely.
Another reason why I feel so deeply affected by happy experiences with strangers could be because we've become accustomed to expecting the worst of others. Just this morning, I wasn't woken up by a cheery 'good morning!' but rather, by my mum retelling some recent scam incident she read about on the news. We're no strangers to Stranger Danger, constantly reminded of the alarming asshole-to-normal-people ratio. We've set our standards so low, that anything mildly positive is groundbreaking.
An example of this was something that occurred almost exactly four years ago, in my school's café. Upon reaching the cashier to pay for my two cream-cheese bagels, I found my card low on money, approximately a dollar short of my purchase. While I was frantically patting down my pockets and pawing through the depth of despair that is my backpack, the girl behind me brandished her own school card, like it was some sort of magical artefact. While I profusely thanked her for ending my humiliation of holding up the queue, she simply smiled kindly, adopting the expression one would expect a benevolent priest to have. I doubt she remembers this now, or that I'll ever see her again, but four years (and two mediocre bagels) later, this memory still plays out in 4K technicolour clarity in my head.
This is all the more exemplified by compliments: there's truly nothing more heartwarming than receiving a compliment from a stranger, when they are under no obligation nor have some hidden motive for doing so. I make a point out of doing this, and nine out of ten times, I'm met with bright smiles and mild surprise from the other party. I dare you: the next stranger you meet today, find something small to compliment them on. The world is already a difficult place, why not try to brighten it up little by little?
One last unexpected benefit of interactions with strangers? If things go south, or it's impossibly awkward, you'll never have to see them again! There are so many possibilities waiting for every face you see on the street, so many potential connections, for you to form at your choosing. Not every smile, not every conversation has to blossom into a decade-long friendship. It's the hope that it could, that is the true beauty of encounters with strangers.