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.