At the entrance to one of my favorite trails — the Interlaken Park Loop — two white wooden chairs sit facing each other, a six-foot-long white painted measuring stick running from the leg of one chair to the leg of the other.
The chairs were installed anonymously in the early days of our united isolation. I admit that the first time I saw them I felt a little rankled. At the time, mask wearing was still a political football and the chairs struck me as a negative commentary on social distancing.
But, as the months have gone on – and on and on – I’ve come to see the chairs for what they really are: a touchpoint.
Whether or not whoever placed them there intended it, these two chairs have become an invitation to those of us who walk in the park:
“Sit,” they seem to call out. “Now, perhaps more than ever, it's time to have a conversation.”
“Six feet is far enough apart,” I hear them add. “But it’s not too far to connect.”
I’ve seen a lot of people do just that: sit down, masked face to masked face, and chat. A few weeks ago, I sat down in one of the chairs with my dog Posie to rest. Not two minutes later a complete stranger and her little dog took up the other chair and asked “How are you guys doing today?”
We had a lovely talk. I got her number. We may walk our dogs together - six feet apart of course.
Touchpoints.
Yes, yes, I know that word is most known for its corporate connotation. That agonizing call you make to Apple customer service is, sadly, a useful marketing “touchpoint” for the company even as it’s a pain in the ass for you.
But I’m thinking of the other meanings of touchpoint (thank you Google dictionary), including:
a point of contact or interaction,
a point of reference,
in psychology: the time in a child's development that precedes an appreciable leap in physical, emotional, or cognitive growth.
As walking has become my primary form of entertainment, exercise, and creative boost this last year, I’ve noticed more and more points of positive contact all around me — humans reaching out to touch other humans in gentle and often anonymous ways. Touchpoints are the million big and small messages, the art, the exchanges, and the invitations to engage, strategically placed in the landscape of my city and probably yours as well. Strangers caring for each other.
To be clear, I’m not talking about political signs, although I do put the “In this house we believe” sign in the touchpoint category. What I am talking about are the little acts of kindness and beauty and metaphorical meaning which bring me hope in this challenging time or, at a minimum, evoke a smile on a rough day.
I walk three to eight miles around Seattle almost every day, and almost every time I find a new touchpoint. Each one brings me deeper into connection with my community, no matter the differing views that exist here. Like the developing child from the dictionary definition above, I believe the touchpoints I encounter now precede the significant leap in physical, emotional, and social awareness that COVID-19 and anti-oppression movements offer me. That they offer all of us.
What do touchpoints look like? Look around. You’ll see them. Here are a few that have touched me.
Share Boxes
The Little Free Library system has become far more than a bookshare. In case you don’t know what they are, Little Free Libraries usually look like large colorful mailboxes. A tiny plaque invites simply: “Take a book. Share a book.” In the swath of the city I most often stroll, these little libraries have been popping up like flowers in spring.
Most of the books I’ve read this year have come from this community exchange and I am grateful for the money I have saved. But I’ve begun to notice Little Free Libraries becoming something more: food pantries, art exchanges, and in one case a drop-off site for young pen pal letters. One particularly large little library on Capitol Hill offers not only books but also tiny vases of flowers. What a way to brighten someone’s day!
Butterflies
On a Wallingford walk a few weeks ago, I started to notice painted butterflies sticking out of garden beds. The more I looked the more I found. They flew out of pots, hovered over sidewalk strips, clung to trees. It wasn’t just one house, but rather several blocks of but of butterflies. And then, this week, there they were up on Capitol Hill – butterflies floating in front of both grand homes and small apartment complexes.
In many cultures and religions butterflies symbolize transformation. They are a reminder that change often brings renewal, and that endurance and courage bring change.
Painted Rocks
If you really look, you’ll notice something funny happening all around Eastlake. Painted rocks appear, then disappear – only to reappear somewhere else in the neighborhood. As the pandemic has gone on, more rocks have been painted, placed, and moved. The rocks often bear messages of hope and some are exceptionally beautiful. Clearly we have some real artists on our block.
Today I found a tiny one-inch pebble with a tree painted on it sitting at the base of a maple tree. Last week I noticed it on another street wedged into a rock wall. When I see these painted rocks I pause and think about the painter. What are they going through right now? Where do they live? I feel connected. I’ve even been inspired to participate. I hope when people find the rocks I’ve painted – all with tiny labyrinths – they feel a sense of calm. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth is a one way path that goes into the center and out again. You cannot get lost. I want to touch people with that message: We will make it.
The Wishing Tree
On the East side of Capitol Hill just above the Arboretum is a house with a big tree in front of it. Tied to the tree are the wishes of hundreds, maybe thousands of people. There’s a table and chairs on the parking strip for you to sit with your companion and write your own wishes. Each wish is eventually laminated and added to the Wishing Tree.
“I wish my grandma doesn’t get the pandemic.”
“I wish to be married. Again.”
“I wont to play with ma frend Peta agan.”
“I am grateful for my breath today.”
The tree is a touchpoint. It’s a place to hope, to listen, to feel less alone in our struggle. It is also a grand reminder to sit in the seat of gratitude for all that we have.
Poetry of the Month
Each month, a new work is selected. Copies of the poem are placed in the box wired to their fence simply labels "Poetry of the Month." It might be a brand new work of an unknown poet or the revered work of a well-known master. The point is to share words, art, ideas, offer food for thought. Several times this year I've found myself looking up the artist whose work I found in the box, feeling not only more connected to the writer, but to the power of poetry, and the person in that steel blue house who turned it into a touchpoint.
Below the white conversation chairs, at the bottom entrance of the Interlaken Park Loop, there is another touchpoint: a bucket of sidewalk chalk.
The bucket is rarely empty, even though it is clear from the many messages and art scrawled in pink and blue and green across the asphalt that it is frequently used:
“Black Lives Matter.”
“We wear our masks for each other.”
“Take Your Red and Blue and Make Purple.”
“We’ve got this.”
I’ve never seen a cuss word chalked here, nor private body parts with lewd messages. No hate speech. Just kid-colored hearts and flowers, words of hope, acknowledgement of the need for change, and anonymous invitations to be better.
And, not too long ago, a second set of chairs arrived. Child-size chairs six feet apart.
I hear the message in this touchpoint: Teach them to talk, not hate.
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