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.