I’ve been told our neighborhood is one of the hardest mail routes in the city.

Here, the mail carriers deliver mail on foot, climbing up the hill to each house to leave bundles of letters folded in a metal box attached to the house, slipped in a mail slot, or—my favorite—tucked inside the old wooden milk door.

This is how we met, Marissa, our mail carrier.

A few months back, we were out on a walk, as we do every day after lunch. We saw Marissa on her route, a loop of even footsteps like stitches in a quilt as she visited house by house along our street. Rory, our 10-year-old lab-greyhound, ran up to greet her, and to her delight, Marissa pulled out a full-size Milk Bone from her navy mailbag.

It was Thursday. 

My 2nd-grade student stood at the piano next to me, his hand on the white keys in the upper register. We were improvising in minor—coming up with patterns and musical ideas. He played C-B-A spontaneously and it caught his attention.

“My ears were looking, but not my eyes!” he said with pride and amazement, tipping his ear toward the keys. His sandy brown hair fell across his blue eyes as he replayed the pattern.

What if we listened with our eyes and saw with our ears?

The 4th graders wrote poems about identity last month.

Inspired by George Ella Lyon, they typed their own “Where I'm From” poem, line by line:

• “I am from my grandparents’ pear tree, whose lovely branches are always loaded with pears.”

• “I am from jazz with its lively beat.”

• “I am from those moments when I am full of wonder.”

I stood in front of the bulletin board, reading them in between lessons—each one describing a world shaped by unique experiences, influences, and values. It’s what we represent in the world.

It happens every year.

The change in season invites a change in routine. So we shift back into our brisk fall rhythms, penciling in commitments and activities in every calendar square, [seasonally-appropriate] coffee in hand.

We push uncertainty to the edges as the margins close in. After all, there’s energy and excitement in the rush of being busy.

So we let the adrenaline carry us, floating through life just a little faster than before. The scenery blurring—a wash of colors, sounds, and ideas.

The world feels like it's spinning with reckless abandon right now, and we're stuck on the carousel*.* The organ playing “The Organ Grinder's Serenade” on repeat as we go round and round.

Faster, faster.

It started in June, with the carrot cake.

A rectangle of spice cake in the larger half of the Tupperware and a few spoonfuls of sugar glaze in the smaller side. Leftover from a birthday celebration across the street—the first year without the person they were celebrating. “I saved you a piece,” he said simply.

A few weeks later, I returned the Tupperware with a wedge of peach cake—vanilla cake with sugared peaches in the middle and on top.

“It’s a Southern tradition,” I said, standing on the doorstep and squinting up at him in the evening light. “Never bring back an empty container.”