It was on the first level of Central Junior High — a small time capsule disguised as a classroom, where for three months, we all agreed that it was and would be relevant, this learning of shorthand and other very soon to be obsolete office skills using copier paper, white out and ink pads. Even my mother in the Superintendent’s office down the hall and up the flight of stairs wasn’t using such antiquated materials or skills.

But I see now, it was never really about what we were learning, but that we were learning. And I do use a sort of shorthand, delightfully and daily.  It was just yesterday, having a difficult time, I texted her. She, who requires the least amount of explanation. She, without taking the same class, knows my shorthand, and how to reply. She heard my grievance, acknowledged it, took a breath, then asked me what I was wearing. Even knowing what was happening, I went through my ensemble from mother’s blouse to brown suede boots, feeling the delightful squiggles that translated into, you know me, I’m fine, I do look good, thank you, everything is going to be ok. 

What a privilege it is to know people. Really know them. And to be known by them. This is what keeps us relevant. Keeps us living. These skills will save us. And just as needed, to have this relationship with yourself. To be able to have the skills that reach from heart to fingers to brain, in a shorthand of self care. 

In the afternoon I painted three birds. Gave them each a beret. They knew what I meant. We are all going to be ok.