It was 9:27 a.m., three minutes until the Monitor-wide, daily Zoom meeting. I’d been trying to log in early to these, hoping to promote the kind of nondirected conversation (read: “chitchat”) that can be so valuable and yet is so lacking in this work-from-home era.
The first few people to come online for a teleconference feel free to greet and talk with one another. As more people join, the conversation slows. By the time the 12th or 13th person arrives, talk ceases. Instead we stare into one another’s eyes from our bedrooms, kitchens, and living rooms until the meeting host arrives.
I value, and miss, nondirected conversations. A lot of good ideas can come from them. They strengthen friendships and build teams. As editor of the Monitor Weekly, I chose to hand-deliver copies of the magazine to my colleagues in the newsroom when the box of issues arrived. Sometimes I’d be placing a magazine on an empty desk. But sometimes it was an occasion to compliment writers on their stories, talk with people with whom I didn’t usually interact, or even stop and – if it seemed OK to interrupt – ask how it was going, what they were up to. Sometimes I’d float an idea: “What if we used the inside front and back covers of the Weekly to create a poster?” “What do you think about maybe bringing back the Op-Ed section?” “What if we did an entire issue as a comic book?” (Don’t worry: I realized the folly of that one as soon as I heard myself say it out loud.) Communication is so deliberate now.
My eldest son works in business development for a global entrepreneur. He has a remote team – made even more so now, with no one in his office. I asked him how he handles chitchat.
My son noted that he has more excuses to tack casual conversations onto regular one-on-one check-in calls. But when I pressed him he had a suggestion: You might try this team-building exercise I used when I led those long bike-camping trips, he said.
I logged into the Monitor’s daily Zoom meeting and waited. Three others joined me: an intern, a photographer, and a graphic designer. We started chatting. It was taking a while for others to show up. That’s because, one of us discovered, the meeting had been canceled. I suddenly had an idea. Before we go, I said, may I try something? “Rose, thorn, bud” is my son’s bike-trip exercise: Tell something you’re happy about (rose), something that bothers you (thorn), and something you’re looking forward to (bud).
After some cajoling on my part, we began. To all our surprise, three of us had the same thorn and rose: The thorn was the burden of living with the pandemic and all its uncertainty, restrictions, and frustration. And the rose? Being at home with spouses, children, parents. Two sides of the COVID-19 crisis loomed equally large in our minds. It was unexpected, reassuring, unifying.
It was a moment.
And it’s why I’ve strengthened my resolve to show up at Zoom meetings just a little early. Even if it turns out there isn’t one.