Looking out the window of the train to Philly, I saw a lot of graffiti. There were words splayed across the brick walls of abandoned buildings, along bridges, and atop telephone poles. Some beg the question of what self-respecting teenager would risk his life shimmying two stories up with a can of spray paint under his arm? A bunch of them, it turns out. 

I am curious about the motivation. Is it to prove bravado? Was there a dare? Then facing the blank canvas, what epithet gets the chance to be emblazoned? Is brevity a concern, or spelling? 

Then there are the unspoken duels, where a word was painted over, and another appeared in its place. There is no time stamp, but perhaps it transpired over weeks. The city employee tasked with cleaning it up is perhaps less keen on climbing a long ladder, though he probably has the advantage of doing it in the daylight and on the clock. 

Does the artist feel pride when he sees what he has done? Is he satisfied that his message was received?

When I was young, I invented a secret code that resembles the script used in graffiti. I used it to send notes to my friends, who knew the alphabet. There is a pleasure in conveying messages that your intended recipient can read, but not other people. 

One of my daughters' teachers had a proposal written in the sky. Her would be fiancé had the nerve wracking task of making sure she looked up at the right moment, because cloudy letters are notoriously short-lived. She said yes, before the smoke disappeared. 

The trick is, sometimes we send thoughts to people who cannot decipher them, or forget to look up. We might offer helpful suggestions to someone in the hopes that it will convey our love, and instead it translates to judgments. Or we may withhold commenting, for any number of reasons, and it is interpreted as apathy. 

My prayer is to listen with curiosity. The trouble starts when I believe I know what someone means before they open their mouth.