If we taught the five love languages in school like we teach French or German.

If we learned in Kindergarten that the true measure of a life well-lived isn’t in our grand accomplishments, but in the small courageous acts of everyday love we choose.

If, at the end of Grade 1, we each received a permission slip and the instructions for radical self-compassion – so that we could unabashedly grow to be fully human, embracing our imperfections, trusting our inner voices, and finding freedom in simply being who we are.

If, Social Studies taught us about prioritizing self-awareness, authenticity and community over achievements, status and power.

If, a fall and some skinned knees on the playground at recess, compelled us in the future to act on the knowledge that all that’s needed to part the invisible veil of indifference to each other’s presence, each other’s wonder, and each other’s human plight – is a hug.

If Geography lessons mapped out for us that the most profound legacies aren’t those etched in marble but those woven into the fabric of our relationships – the quiet moments of kindness, the steadfast presence in times of struggle, the wholehearted championing of another’s dreams.

If we turned out the lights in Gym class and practiced walking in the dark, travelling with our eyes closed, and learning to feel our way to compassion for the parts of ourselves that struggle.

If we learned on that camping field trip that we all have to navigate our own wilderness, knowing that we can’t draw anyone else a map or clear the path for them. We can only be the campfire they come back to when they need a rest.

If we never forgot that one time that the winning Science Fair project proved the hypothesis that self-acceptance is the bravest, most revolutionary thing any one of us will ever do.

Or, if we experimented with our lives in Grade 5, learning to live like dandelions. Unapologetic. Feral. Beautiful in a way that the conventional and controlling hate but can’t ever destroy. Filled with wishes to be carried after we die.

If, while learning about the mathematical theories that hold the universe together, we also learned about the probability that everything and everyone we’ll ever lose will become more precious to us in the losing. And that each person’s transactions with grief and loss will be exquisitely personal.

If Horticulture class taught us to cultivate resilience like we do Facebook followers. And that, like plants that grow best in dim light, none of us has to live so long trying so hard to do good – we can try softer.

If the lesson we took away from that hour in teenage tears with the guidance counsellor was that true generosity isn’t in material things – it’s in the offering of our time, our attention and our whole-hearted presence.

If running track in the spring taught us that life sometimes has to bring you full circle to a place you’ve been before, just to show you how much you’ve grown.

If the homework in Art class was to paint a picture of the life we want for ourselves using a brush made of our actions, thoughts, words and intentions so we wouldn’t find out too late how to create a life while we’re so busy living it.

If showing up and listening to the notes in Music class also taught us something about showing up and listening to each other – or, that we don’t always need to know the next note, or why things happen – it’s just as important to leave room in life’s song for the magic and the mystery.

If being sent to the principal’s office demonstrated for us that no matter what happened in the past, no matter how many bad decisions we’ve made, there is a standing invitation – to be seen, to be held and to be accompanied through our struggles.

If Health class, taught us how to be with the dying. How to get good at hospitals, offering comfort in the face of bleak odds, and hearing words that are not like any other words. (Like, “your mother is going to die soon.”) And that our grief over those moments is not the enemy, but an ebb and flow toward profound healing – like a blessing that reaches us even when there isn’t light to see it.

If we learned in History class that the explorers who sailed the oceans, confronting enemies and conquering new lands, were just a metaphor for all the times we’ll have to climb mountains and cross raging seas to confront and conquer ourselves in this life.

If the lesson we stuffed into our backpacks in the school library was that books and stories and scars and hearts and opportunities are doors. And, sometimes a door is your only available mode of transportation. Go.

If the Lost and Found box in the hall didn’t just hold stray mittens and sweatshirts but, by osmosis, imparted the knowledge that we’ll lose things in this life over and over again. Even the dead. But we’ll find that somehow we’re a little part of everyone we’ve ever met in our lives and, even if they leave, there are some pieces of them that still live in us: as a home, a lesson or a story worth telling.

If, in Home-Ec, we learned the art of making conversation at the dinner table reach beyond the veil to our beloveds in the empty chairs. Like here, this is how we love you who will never be here for dinner again. Raise your glass. Make their favourite dish. Light a candle. Tell stories. Remember. Cry. Laugh. Let it hurt. Let it pass. Let them stay.

If, on graduation night, we hugged each other in our caps and gowns before we walked across the stage to collect a diploma stitched together with B-pluses and A-minuses from courses on: How to Forgive Ourselves, How to Carry Regret Lightly, How to Accept Grace When it Arrives, and How to Know in Your Soul That We Don’t Die When We Die – We Go On and On and Into the Light Forever.

If, in Creative Writing class, I wrote what you feel but cannot say, and I hoped it made me a poet. But it made me a bridge.