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.”

It was Wednesday, 5:05 p.m.

I propped up the lid of the old 1927 Steinway in the school theater and turned to face a small group of 3rd graders, sitting in the red cloth chairs, munching on pretzel sticks, piano books resting on their laps.

It was our final studio class of the year—the one where we practice performing our recital pieces.

“Before we play today, I want to talk about three things that every musical performance needs,” I said. Hands shot up in the air without hesitation.

“I know, I know,” one student said. “You need an audience.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I said, “But I’m thinking more about things you can bring to the performance.”

We started watching a new show last week—one of those detective + unlikely partner stories. (You know, like Numb3rs, The Mentalist, Monk, Psych, Castle…)

In this show, Cole is the rule-following detective. Max is the “wild card”—a charismatic con woman on probation. They solve a new case in every episode, tied up with a neat little bow (juuust what I need before bed).

In this particular episode, in the middle of a complicated murder investigation, Max cracks open a fortune cookie and unfolds the white slip of paper inside.

You started with the best of intentions.

You had fresh energy, creative inspiration, the will and focus to pursue that dream, no matter what it required. You put in the time. You studied, you practiced, you learned. You worked hard.

But at some point, the inspiration started to fade. Your motivation waned. You faced a challenge, reached a plateau, hit a wall. Feelings of self-doubt, discomfort, and uncertainty began to take root.

Welcome to the messy middle.

Many people stop at this point. It’s too hard. It’s not what they thought it would be. They avoid it. But that’s a mistake.

It started last summer with the drafting table.

My 89-year-old neighbor was sorting through items in his garage and rediscovered an antique drafting table he once used for his photography and design work. It had a cast iron pedestal base (painted saffron yellow) and a large mahogany-stained top, which he custom-built.

“I have another one in the house,” Joe said in his cheerful Southern accent, his eyes sparkling behind a pair of round black glasses. “Would you like it?”

And so it was that the drafting table with the yellow base found its way into my attic studio/home office.

The sun came out today, which reminded me how dark it’s been lately. 

We expect that in winter, don’t we? Cold and dark and gloomy. “We’re having a real winter for the first time in several years and I’m kind of mad about it,” I said to a friend on the phone last weekend.

It’s not that I don’t like the snow. We’ve skied and cross-country skied and hiked more this year than the last few years combined. It's more about another week of not seeing the sun, not seeing temperatures above 30. Another personal loss and wave of grief. Another devastating news cycle.

It’s hard. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

“Be in practice, not in pursuit.”

I read this in a newsletter from The Design Lab last week. Owner Nicole Yang wrote, “I think growing as a person often has much more to do with the ‘little’ unseen ways that we change rather than the big obvious ones.”

Things like:

• Becoming a better listener and communicator.

• Slowly moving from a fixed mindset to a growth mindset.

• Developing mental toughness and resilience.

• Learning how to ask better questions, in teaching and in learning.

Six weeks until Christmas, and Santa dropped out, our emcee was stepping down, and the Night-of Coordinator couldn't commit. Oh, and the Christmas tree is dying.

Our neighborhood has a longstanding tradition (104 years, to be exact): On Christmas Eve, neighbors gather at the end of the street under a big spruce tree strung with colored lights. 

Song sheets are handed out as the crowd begins singing “Deck the Halls,” then “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and so on.