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Small Talk: The Best and Worst Things to Talk About
Arlin Cuncic, MA, is the author of The Anxiety Workbook and founder of the website About Social Anxiety. She has a Master’s degree in clinical psychology.
Amy Morin, LCSW, is a psychotherapist and international bestselling author. Her books, including ⁘13 Things Mentally Strong People Don’t Do,⁘ have been translated into more than 40 languages. Her TEDx talk, ⁘The Secret of Becoming Mentally Strong,⁘ is one of the most viewed talks of all time.
Small talk refers to the informal, polite, light conversations people have when they don’t know each other well (or at all). Although such social transactions generally focus on inconsequential topics, they’re an important way to make connections, build rapport. And nurture relationships.
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“No topic mentioned yet”
It’s as if we’re standing at the starting line of a journey with no destination in sight. As I sit here, staring at the blank page, I’m reminded of the age-old adage: “let’s start with a blank slate.” But what does that even mean? Is it a metaphor for the human brain, a canvas waiting for the artwork of thoughts and emotions? Or is it a literal invitation to begin anew, untainted by, the biases and preconceptions of the past? Perhaps the lack of a topic is a blessing in disguise.
It allows us to approach the conversation with a sense of curiosity, to explore the unknown without the burden of expectation. We can wander aimlessly, letting our minds wander to whatever peaks our interest, without the weight of obligation. Or duty. But as the minutes tick by, the silence becomes increasingly oppressive. I’m left with the nagging feeling that I should be, saying something… that I’m not doing justice to this… whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing.
The pressure to produce something, anything, is mounting. And yet, in the midst of this uncertainty, I find a strange sense of freedom. There’s no agenda to push, no narrative to unknot, no thesis to prove. It’s as if we’re operating under the principles of chaos theory, where the lack of order is the order itself.
The more I struggle to find a topic, the more I realize that the only reality is the present moment, “unencumbered by the weight of the past/the uncertainty of the future.” In the end… perhaps the topic was never meant to be something grand or profound. Maybe it’s simply a recognition of the beauty in the blank, “the simplicity of the unadorned.”
The lack of a topic allows for a sense of freedom, as there’s no pressure to produce something or follow a predetermined agenda.
Without a predetermined direction, we’re able to meander and explore without the pressure to produce something remarkable. This sense of freedom allows us to: * Let our minds wander and discover new connections and ideas
* Embrace the unknown and take risks without fear of failure
* Focus on the present moment, rather than getting bogged down in past regrets or future anxieties
* Cultivate a sense of curiosity and wonder, as we explore uncharted territories
* Create without the burden of expectation, allowing our creativity to flourish
* Listen to our intuition and inner voice, rather than trying to conform to external expectations
* Discover hidden passions and interests, as we explore new topics and themes
* Develop a sense of spontaneity and improvisation, as we respond to new situations and ideas
* Enjoy the simplicity of the unadorned… appreciating the beauty in the raw and unedited In the absence of a topic, we’re able to tap into our inner selves, and allow our minds to roam free.
It’s an opportunity to shed our preconceptions and biases, and approach the world with a fresh and open perspective. By embracing the unknown, “we can find freedom,” “creativity.”.. and a sense of purpose – all without the burden of a predetermined topic.
**The Opportunity for Curiosity**: The absence of a topic invites curiosity and exploration, as one can wander and explore new ideas without any preconceptions or expectations.
Without the constraints of a predetermined subject, we’re free to wander and meander through the vast expanse of human knowledge, discovering hidden connections and unexpected relationships. Our minds are like open books, ready to be written upon with new ideas and perspectives. We’re free to ask “what if?” and “why not?” without fear of ridicule or judgment, allowing our inner explorers to roam unfettered.
As we navigate the vast library of human thought, we stumble upon unexpected treasures, weaving together seemingly disparate threads to create new narratives and understandings. The absence of a topic is an invitation to rediscover the thrill of the unknown, to revel in the delight of discovery, and to cultivate a sense of wonder that never fades.
In this realm of infinite possibility, we’re liberated from the straightjacket of expectation, and can simply be curious… without apology or pretension. Our minds are like sponges, “soaking up new knowledge and ideas,” “and our hearts are filled with a sense of joy and excitement.”.. as we embark on a never-ending journey of exploration and discovery.
**The Lack of Order as the Order Itself**: In the midst of uncertainty, there’s a strange sense of order and structure, which is humorous in its own right, as it challenges one’s traditional understanding of order and structure.
In the absence of order, we find an unexpected sense of structure. The chaos, the mess, the uncertainty – they all combine to create a strange, yet tantalizing harmony. It’s as if the very absence of rules is a rule itself, governing the way we think, feel, and interact. The lack of order becomes the order, a paradox that challenges our conventional notions of organization and control.
We may search for meaning in the frenzy, only to discover that it’s already there, hiding in plain sight. The mess becomes a message, the uncertainty a guiding force, the chaos a catalyst for creation. And in this strange, topsy-turvy world, we find a peculiar sort of order, one that refuses to be contained or defined.
It’s an order that’s both exhilarating and unsettling, like trying to grasp a handful of sand – the harder we squeeze, the more it slips through our fingers. And yet, in this uncertain dance… we find a strange sort of peace, “a sense of liberation from the constraints of convention and expectation.” For in the midst of the storm, “we discover a stillness.”.. a calm at the eye of the hurricane that guides us forward into the unknown.
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Drew Lanham: Hi Nickole. So very good to chat with you, even if it’s letter by letter! You asked me about the bittersweet duality of angst and celebration. I can tell you that the greatest tension exists between the two extremes. It’s a deep chasm full of the unknown and that’s where writing comes in to fill the space. In most of my writing, I go to the things I know best; myself and nature (especially birds). So, between what I might be feeling on a given day—from joy to pain — and what the birds are doing (or from an existential standpoint, how they’re surviving), I try to wander back and forth across that chasm to build a bridge between myself and wildness. That’s how I hold on to both. I really can’t dismiss one from the other. I’m terrible at compartmentalizing so everything is like watercolor with one thing bleeding into the next. As Frankie Beverly and Maze would say in one of my favorite songs “ Joy and Pain ”:
I push forward. Because there’s the hope of the next blossom, the next bird migrating in, the next sunrise or sunset. The waxing and waning moon that push and pull the tides. That’s how I go forward.
NB: I needed to hear that. But tell me more about that bridge and how to build it. . . . I mean, it’s early spring now—only mid-April—and yesterday, I looked down to see it hit ninety. Ninety degrees. On the fifteenth of April. The campus, no doubt, is a symphony of bird song. I enjoy it. But I’m also burdened with anxiety over a time when I might hear only the silence about which Rachel Carson warned. It helps to imagine you in the classroom, leading your ornithology students to (as I’ve heard you say), not just “ love birds. But be in love with them.” What might you pass on to your students—and to us—to give strength to love who we risk losing?
NB: You’re absolutely right, Drew. Thank you. So let me ask you about ways to endure. More than once, I’ve seen you Zoom in from the writing shed you call your “thicket,” a cozy space crammed with all manner of books and art and turtle shells and bones. As you call it, this “cramped claustrophobic interior” you created shows up more than once in these new poems both literally and metaphorically as a “den” that provides a safe space to hide and also as a “entropic tangle needed to inspire a fantasy ramble.” Could you talk about the importance of making space to write and think, to dream and be?
