Swaying in my newly hung hammock, I was quite pleased with myself. The breeze rippled through the leaves above me, and I had not dropped with a thud to the ground.
As I settled into the voluminous blue and red folds of fabric, I heard a voice address me from the path. “You found a perfect pair of hammock trees,” he said.
A bit suspicious of this interruption, but willing to give the speaker a chance, I poked my head out of the hammock. The stranger's outfit reminded me of how a friend of mine dresses: a performance t-shirt—the kind you might wear to hike or rock climb—and a pair of loose but not too loose pants with a couple of extra pockets. Although I wasn't sure where his comment was leading, I decided to engage. Maybe he, like me, had been missing random conversations during the pandemic.
“Yeah!” I said. “It's my first time using it. The first trees I tried were too far apart.”
I had been a bit nervous to figure out how to use the hammock in such a public space, knowing how easy it is for me to invent criticism in others' looks, let alone take the criticism that they explicitly share. The dual opportunity for learning, however, seemed worth the minor risk, since I have been working on feeling more comfortable with learning in my own way, rather than how I think others might learn. Perhaps more importantly, I knew I had limited time to enjoy on the beautiful Sunday afternoon, and I wanted to take advantage of every minute.
Chatting with this fellow ended up being kind of fun. He shared that although he had a camping hammock, he hadn't thought to bring it to the park, and that he was going to meet a friend over by the music pavilion. We talked about how the weather was perfect for a hammock, not too hot. He speculated that it was maybe because it had recently rained. I agreed, saying that I knew it had rained overnight because it meant I hadn't had to hose bugs off my rose bush that morning.
Just as I felt we were hitting a stride in the conversation, he changed the topic back to the hammock.
“Your backpack is going to make it bouncy.” He looked at the backpack in question, which hung from the same webbing that held the hammock. I had put it there as a last touch to my setup, thinking that I could completely relax knowing that my stuff would be an unappetizing target to any (already unlikely) spontaneous theft. I also liked the symmetry of it: all of my presence in the park suspended off the ground.
“Oh, good point!” I conceded, and shifted to get out of the hammock to move it. I could only conclude that the backpack's position was why this stranger had stopped to talk to me. He quickly said goodbye, and I found myself returning to my thinking about learning in this public space, and practicing humility and gratitude when I do learn from someone.
And yet, I also couldn't help but wonder why he had stopped to tell me. A backpack making a hammock bouncy is a pretty straightforward phenomenon to notice. Perhaps it would have taken me a moment, but I expect I would have figured it out in my own time.
Many UX researchers talk about the mild agony of watching a usability participant struggle to find the link or button that will let them complete a task. Even if the researcher manages to look neutral on the outside, on the inside they're sitting forward in their chairs and holding their fingertips to their mouths. They know what the answer is, and it seems so obvious that they hate to watch someone else look for it.
While I think I felt some of that anxiety when I first started practicing research, it's faded for me. Now, I enjoy waiting as I watch the participant slowly and surely find what they need on their own. I have confidence that with enough time and space they will figure it out. In the exceedingly rare cases when they do need help, I know that I will be waiting there, ready to lend the gentle nudge when they need it, and not before.