I keep looking at objects in my house with expectancy, staring into the bright eyes and smiling mouths of all sorts of anthropomorphic animal faces—the bee on the graham cracker box, the Pokemon backpack clip, the dragonfly wind chimes. I am hoping they will speak to me. They stare back dumbly, without consciousness, let alone insight. I am left to my own devices as usual.

The boys and I are watching a TV series called Wonderfalls on DVD. Four episodes aired before it was cancelled, but fourteen were filmed and collected in this set. We have watched six so far. It is easy to see why it did not find an audience. It might be too smart for the casual viewer with its difficult characters and byzantine plot lines. It is so offbeat it defies genre, an irreverent mix of Joan of Arcadia and Northern Exposure. The gimmick is to tackle taboo topics the same way Law and Order casts celebrity guest stars, tossing in a shock now and then, clunky but unexpected. We like it.

The general conceit of Wonderfalls is that a twenty-four year old Gen Y woman cannot seem to begin her own life, stuck in a quagmire of inertia and under-achievement. Suddenly she begins receiving instructions on how to change other people’s lives. These instructions come from the voices of various animal objects, first in the gift shop where she works and then expanding to include vocal creatures wherever she goes: a mounted fish, flamingos in a yard, a buffalo apron, etc. At first, Jaye, the woman’s name, assumes she is losing her mind. However, as she begins following the cryptic messages, she realizes that her obedient responses set in motion a chain of events that eventually move the recipient of her actions to a place of psychic and circumstantial opportunity. Jaye is unable to ignore the insolent insistence of the knick knack chorus, reluctantly discovering that they possess precognizant knowledge of the people she is supposed to “help.” Jaye allows herself to be an actor in the schemes of whomever or whatever is animating these creatures.

As the series progresses, we get to know her family, a narcissistic bunch who regard Jaye as a pupa of unrealized potential, on the verge of worthy contribution. They are mystified at her appalling lack of motivation. She resists change seemingly to spite them and is horrified at her sudden complicity in scenarios where her involvement is considered heroic. She is embarrassed that she might be changing after all, that this bizarre gift or curse could be rubbing off on her. Even plot contrivances she herself puts into motion are suspect: somehow the voices must have been indirectly responsible; she cannot believe in her own ability to determine other’s needs. She assures herself she is much too selfish.

The series flirts with religion, mental illness and coincidence, all logical explanations in situations where the bear-shaped cookie jar is speaking to only one person in the room. But the strength of the story is that it focuses on the result of Jaye’s actions, not necessarily the origination. After the initial cute-factor of all the little objects chatting, stuff starts happening, people start learning things, characters share and connect and eventually someone ends up taking a step forward in a way that they would not have before. Ultimately, it is about the domino effect in which one small nudge in the right place at the right time can change everything. Change invites a rearrangement and renewal of meaning.  

The boys and I are not just analytical about the themes—we laugh together and propose reasons why the show got cancelled so quickly. They point to the FOX Network. I suggest a bad time slot. We repeat lines that we thought were especially funny and, yes, we hold up the occasional curio and throw our voices unconvincingly, demanding that the listener kill or maim or do things that make boys snort and mothers cringe. But I am duplicitous with them. I talk about the show like a pastime; secretly my interest is deeper.

Like Jaye, I don’t automatically know where to support or encourage random society. I have to think about it. My family, perhaps as clever, but not as glamorous as Jaye’s, was also insular, not community-service oriented. But, unlike Jaye, I long for cosmic guides to laser point where I should reach out to the universe. I would love for the blue geisha on my ceramic vase to look up with elegant intention and say, “Pandora, bring the neighbor an egg.” And I, blindly hopeful, would take the egg and somehow save a marriage. I know I would not freak out if this really happened. So I keep staring at things and listening.

But nothing is going to talk to me. I am confined to what I call the “casserole model of change.” When I was a kid, someone from the church would call up my mother and ask her to take a casserole to someone who was sick or had just had a baby. She would always do it, but she would mutter through the preparation. She did not really know this person. Why would anyone not eat onions? How far away did these people live? Yet she inevitably came home feeling like she had done a nice thing. She always enjoyed small talk at the door, seeing the new baby, and being thanked for her great cooking. I think about my mother and wonder, if someone does this enough, even if compelled by peer pressure, will they eventually want to do it on their own and then graduate into wanting to do things where there is not a door or baby or even thanks? My casserole model predicts that any good we influence is first practiced for the reward, then practiced as a habit, and then perhaps, at some point, practiced as reflex. It is life-long, and the voices end up being our own, in our own head, cajoling us towards our constructed perception of what is good and helpful.

Why do some people instantaneously lurch down to help someone who has dropped something, picking up what they can while others stand there or walk away? Why do some strangers smile at me and others glare? What is the difference? My window got stuck in the down position in the airport parking lot the other day. I panicked and asked a gentleman walking by to help me yank it back into place. He said no, he was late. I ended up taking my car to the valet and they fixed it. Did the man’s refusal mean that the valet had a better day? Or was the man ignoring his own promptings to help a lady in distress? Or was he just a jerk? Please, can just one stuffed animal whisper a clue?

We have eight more episodes of Wonderfalls to watch.  We are hoping that there is an actual ending. Maybe Jaye finds out that the animals stop talking when she figures out how to move her own life forward. Maybe she continues to hear them her whole life. It is strange watching a failed TV show about the power of positively interacting with the world. Perhaps the would-be audience was discouraged by the ease of Jaye’s impact. Most of us are surrounded by silent figurines and more casseroles than we can possibly bake.