​Pacific Northwest National Lab held their cybersecurity for energy event in Milwaukee last week, in an early-1900s Hilton ballroom with carvings on the ceiling and relief sculptures on every wall. There wasn’t a single flat surface to hang paper on, except for a makeshift wall they had built at the back of the room.

In order to make all of the drawings fit in the space (they moved our room at the last minute), I had to cut my sheets down to 32 inches across, taking a huge canvas and sectioning it down into its base parts. As a perfectionist who preps A LOT in advance, this was difficult for me.

At the close of three days, PNNL team members brought out cardboard tubes. They had bought them for the second year in a row so the people in the room could roll up the finished sheets to take with them to hang in home offices throughout the country.

It was amazing to watch people float around the room with these, surprised they were there for the taking.

Someone asked if he could carry on the rolled paper at the airport. Another, when she realized she got to keep one of the remaining sheets, said, "Really? Oh, really this is something I could put in my office for my team?" She held it in a way that showed she was grateful, and in a way that you can’t hold a PowerPoint (which you can’t).

What do we hand to others?

Try to think of the last time someone made something with their hands and then put it directly in your hands. Made, then handed. Hand to hand.

A church greeter handing you the bulletin at the door, where the handing off is half the point. Coffee from a barista who actually pulled the shot.

Maybe produce at a farmer’s market when the person selling it grew it themselves. Artisan jewelry at a craft fair when the maker is in the booth.

Megan’s dad used to make gold-leaf plaster columns inside people’s houses, a skill he picked up restoring Heinz Hall in Pittsburgh. Not a traditional handoff, but I think it works. Now you have to look hard to find someone who still can.

The mixtape was a consumer version. Forty-five minutes of music with every song picked on purpose, and a handmade title written on the case in marker. We replaced it with a Spotify playlist that says “eleven hours of songs you’re going to love.”

What survived the transition is small. Something was made by the person handing it to you, and the next person to hold it is the one it was made for. There is and was a certain energy in that exchange.

Scaling down for size

Before this work, I wrote intelligence reports nobody ever held. I came at this job partly to leave that behind.

Now I keep post-its and pens on me wherever I am. The bartenders at BWI know me because I’ve drawn napkins for most of them. The same happens with seatmates on planes who did something kind that day, or the people at the next table at restaurants. Church gets one most Sundays.

The format scales from a Southwest or Delta napkin to a 32-inch sheet. The job is the same: make a thing and put it in someone's hand.

What can you still hand somebody?

The list is shorter than it used to be, but I bet if you think about it, your list has something on it.

Grateful you are here,

Wade