Maybe we should all start carrying a handkerchief again — not that I do, but I like the idea of something soft and real in a world that isn’t. Something you’d fold, wash, and keep. A reminder that care used to mean something, and could again.

Here are a few other things we might try, while there’s still time to remember what being human feels like.

Write thank-you notes. With a pen. On paper. Stamp and mail them. The words don’t have to be perfect — the act itself is what matters. It’s a small rebellion against the cold speed of the text message.

Eat carrots. Real ones, the kind that come with dirt still clinging to them. Slice them, roast them, taste the sweetness that convenience stole from us. Food should have a smell, a story, a bit of effort behind it.

Set the table. Even if it’s just for you. Especially if it’s just for you. Light a candle, pour your drink into an actual glass, unfold a napkin. Remind yourself you are worth the ritual.

Stop watching television for one month. It will shock you how quickly the silence starts to hum with life again. You’ll sleep better, think clearer, and start to recognize your own thoughts instead of the ones sold to you.

Read one book a month. Not a post, not a thread, not an article. A book. With a spine and paper that smells faintly like time. Sit somewhere quiet and read until your mind unclenches.

Plan a spring trip to Paris. Or anywhere that stirs your pulse. You don’t have to go — though I hope you do — but just planning it reminds you that life can still expand. Print out a photo of the Seine and tape it to your fridge if you must. Hope counts as motion.

Learn something new — not because you have to, but because curiosity is oxygen. Bake a pie, build a birdhouse, learn the names of the stars. Creation, in any form, is how we stay limber.

Volunteer. Nothing reorders your perspective faster than being useful to someone else. Hand out food. Visit a nursing home. Walk a shelter dog. You’ll come home feeling cleaner inside than you have in years.

Keep a small vase of flowers in your house. Change the water. Trim the stems. Fresh flowers are proof that beauty doesn’t ask for permission; it just shows up.

Go outside without your phone. Look at the sky. Notice that it still exists. We forget that miracles are free — sunrise, birdsong, the smell of rain. You don’t have to post them to make them real.

Learn to fix something. A hem, a hinge, a friendship. The act of mending teaches patience and gratitude, two things modern life keeps trying to delete.

Say people’s names when you thank them. “Thank you, Susan.” “Good morning, Mike.” Names bring the world back into focus.

Call your parents if you’re lucky enough to still have them. Call your children even if they don’t pick up. Connection is rarely convenient, but it’s always worth the effort.

Buy the good soap. The real kind, not the blue gel that smells like “Arctic Breeze.” Use it on an ordinary Tuesday, because life happens mostly on ordinary Tuesdays.

Stop apologizing for wanting beauty. Light a candle at breakfast. Hang a painting that makes you feel something. Beauty is not frivolous — it’s fuel.

Clean out one drawer. One. Toss what’s broken, keep what’s meaningful. Order in the small places helps you face the big ones.

Forgive someone who never asked. You’ll feel lighter instantly. Forgiveness isn’t approval; it’s freedom.

Sit in silence for ten minutes a day. No music, no screens, no talking. Just your breath, your thoughts, your presence. You might find you’re actually pretty good company.

Send postcards. Carry cash. Say please. Make soup from scratch. Watch a thunderstorm. Smile at strangers. Slow down enough for your soul to catch up.

Do something that takes effort. Sweep your own steps. Cook dinner without ordering a single thing. Tighten the loose doorknob. Write the overdue note. Sit outside after dark and listen to the world instead of watching it. Invite someone over without cleaning first. Don’t photograph the moment; just live it. Life doesn’t have to be efficient or impressive. It just has to be genuine — something done with your own two hands.

We are, all of us, drowning in noise and novelty. But underneath the static, the ancient art of living is still waiting for us — simple, sturdy, human.