There are obviously two educations. One should teach us how to

Host:
The train station was almost empty, its corridors echoing with the faint hum of departure. The evening light came in through the arched windows, falling across benches worn smooth by waiting — by generations of people caught between destinations.

At the far end, a departing train rumbled, its wheels singing of motion, of escape, of continuity. The air smelled of iron, rain, and longing — the scent of life moving on.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, his suit slightly rumpled, his briefcase at his feet. His eyes were on the train schedule above the platform, but he wasn’t reading — he was remembering.

Jeeny appeared from the other side of the station, her hair slightly wind-tossed, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee. When she saw him, she smiled softly, as one might upon seeing a ghost from another part of life. She walked over, sat beside him, and for a while, they just listened — to the low, rhythmic pulse of steel and distance.

Jeeny: softly, watching the rails disappear into dusk “James Truslow Adams once said, ‘There are obviously two educations. One should teach us how to make a living and the other how to live.’”

She turned to him, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the platform lights. “You’ve mastered the first one, Jack. The question is… did you ever have time for the second?”

Jack: smirks faintly, not unkindly “You make it sound like they’re two different worlds. But that’s the problem — they’re not. You can’t live without a living.”

Jeeny: tilts her head “No, but you can make a living without ever learning how to live.”

Jack: sighs “And what’s the difference, really? Living, working — both require endurance, sacrifice, compromise. One just pays better.”

Jeeny: gently “No, Jack. One pays in money, the other in meaning. And the world keeps teaching us to chase the wrong currency.”

Host:
A train arrived, its lights bright, its brakes shrieking, like the sound of modern urgency arriving late again. The few passengers waiting stood, clutching their bags, their faces glowing in blue phone light, the modern halo of distraction.

Jack: watching them “I grew up believing success was proof of intelligence. That the more you earned, the smarter you were. That’s what school taught me — to be efficient, competitive, employable.”

Jeeny: nodding softly “It taught you to survive, not to understand. To memorize, not to wonder.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Wonder doesn’t pay the mortgage.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “No. But it pays the soul. The mortgage ends when you die, Jack. The debt of an unlived life doesn’t.”

Jack: turns toward her slowly, eyes tired “So what — you think I wasted mine?”

Jeeny: gently, kindly “No. But maybe you spent it all on the wrong education.”

Host:
The station clock ticked, each second stretching like a reminder. The crowd thinned, the air cooled, and the lights dimmed to the quiet rhythm of approaching night.

Jack: leans back, eyes closed for a moment “You talk as if there’s still time to start over.”

Jeeny: softly “There’s always time to learn how to live, Jack. That’s the one subject life never stops teaching — if you’re still willing to be a student.”

Jack: opens his eyes, looking at her “You really think living can be taught?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Not taught — rediscovered. Like remembering a language you once spoke fluently as a child, before someone told you to grow up and forget it.”

Jack: his voice quieter now “I used to paint. Did you know that?”

Jeeny: shakes her head “No.”

Jack: a faint smile “Stopped when I started working. I told myself I’d get back to it someday — after I ‘made it.’ But someday kept moving further away.”

Jeeny: gently “Then paint again. You don’t need permission from time — just courage from yourself.”

Jack: chuckles softly “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: looks out toward the horizon “It’s not easy. It’s necessary. That’s the difference between living and merely lasting.”

Host:
The rain outside slowed, each drop on the roof echoing like a metronome counting the beat between two kinds of knowledge — knowing how to live and knowing how to exist.

Jack: after a long pause “You think Adams was right? That there really are two educations?”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Yes. The first teaches us to build tools — the second teaches us to build truths. The first fills our minds, the second fills our souls. And the tragedy of modern life is that we keep calling the first one enough.”

Jack: softly “And maybe the first one makes us forget the second.”

Jeeny: whispers “Only if we let it.”

Host:
A final train approached — the last of the night — its horn long and mournful, a call through darkness that seemed to reach somewhere deeper than sound. The platform lights flickered, and the rails gleamed wet, alive again with reflection.

Jeeny: standing slowly “You know, we send children into the world with diplomas but not direction. We tell them how to earn, but not how to feel. We give them careers, not callings.”

Jack: nods, quietly “We teach them to win, not to wonder.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “Exactly. And so the world fills with clever people who don’t know why they’re unhappy.”

Jack: looks down at his briefcase, thoughtful “Maybe living isn’t something you plan. Maybe it’s something you remember in moments like this — when everything slows down.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe it’s both — a plan and a remembering. The balance between earning bread and breaking it with those who matter.”

Host:
The train doors opened, the warm light spilling out, calling quietly, Now or never. Jack stood, his hand on his briefcase — then hesitated. Jeeny watched him with that still patience she always carried, the kind that never pushed, only waited.

Jack: smiles faintly “You know, I think I’ll take the next one. I’m… not done learning tonight.”

Jeeny: smiling “Then class is still in session.”

Jack: looks at her, softly “And what’s the lesson?”

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper “That life isn’t something you make — it’s something you meet. Every day, everywhere, in everyone.”

Host:
The train pulled away, the platform empty once more, except for the two of them — sitting side by side in the soft afterglow of departure and realization.

Outside, the rain stopped, and the night air cleared, cool and pure. The station clock ticked on, not as a countdown, but as a reminder: time is not the enemy of learning — it’s the teacher of living.

And as the echo of the train faded, James Truslow Adams’ words seemed to linger in the air, quiet but clear —

that there are two educations,
and the second — the one about how to live —
is the one we spend a lifetime forgetting,
and, if we are wise,
a lifetime trying to remember again.