Nine years ago, I was touring a local preschool when the Director told me something I’d heard before: “Kids learn through play.”
Standing in a bright hallway wallpapered with swaths of white construction paper dancing with small purple and blue handprints, I thought of my sixteen-month-old at home and another baby growing in my belly.
The words were no longer hollow, heard in passing, academic. This time, I listened.
I wanted my child to learn, and I also wanted him to play. Could one really lead to the other? Or should I seek out a school that would offer a “leg up” and ready my offspring for an imaginary future, a foundation that would ensure they avoided the pitfalls and difficulties I faced in my own (at times not-so-illustrious) academic career?
Welcome to parenting, mama.
Yesterday, I assisted in a Kindergarten classroom at that very same preschool I toured all those years ago. The preschool both my children attended and thrived in. The same preschool where I now teach.
It’s pretty simple, kids DO learn through play, they just need an environment that ENCOURAGES and makes space for play. Oh, and children also need to be listened to, respected, and slathered in unconditional love and acceptance.
Around the world, children are having their childhoods and their right to play ripped from them due to all manner of conflicts, natural disasters, and economic hardships. Adults are failing those kids. We, the adults in charge, should be doing everything we can to protect every child and their sacred right to something so simple and so easily taken for granted.
With a few brief years of teaching under my belt I’ve concluded that if we can get our adult selves, full of our own burdens and shortcomings and dashed expectations out of the way, the children themselves will guide us and show us how we can best help them grow, learn and play.
The teachers at the elementary school my kids attend now have told me they can spot the students who came from our preschool. “They know how to navigate conflict, they have life skills, and they truly listen to their friends and teachers.”
Did the kids learn all that because they were simply given the space and encouragement to play? It appears to be true.
…and can you really call it “work” when you get to hang on a playground with kiddos while they splash in puddles and listen to the strums of an acoustic guitar?
In the six or so years before my children were in school full-time, we visited local parks on a daily basis. My active kids needed to move their little bodies and yell their little (and big) yells and I needed sanity-saving space and fresh air.
One of our favorite spots featured a well-stocked Little Free Library (LFL) that housed books for kids and adults and everyone in between. Because of that LFL I rediscovered Ramona Quimby and Judy Blume and my children learned about talking chickens and Fly Guy and added even more Dr. Seuss to their already overflowing collection. Fresh discoveries awaited us every time we unhooked the pleasing latch on the library’s little front door.
If you’ve never seen a LFL before you might stop short–at first glance it appears to be a small house balanced on a pole. And in some respects, it is a house, except that no tiny people are living tiny lives inside. Instead, there are books. Free books, nestled on a shelf or two. Patiently waiting for a future reader to stroll by, open the door, and make a new friend (or a new reader…and aren’t they almost the same thing?).
A few years ago, it seemed as if a new LFL was cropping up on practically every street corner in my midsized Midwest city. Local LFL builders were part of a national (and now global) movement that began in Wisconsin when the son of a teacher built a small house in his front yard, mounted it on a post, and filled it with books as a tribute to his late and much admired book-loving mother. I would argue that the mere sight of a LFL can cause a surge of happiness and a decrease in blood pressure.
Recently, an exciting development! A LFL appeared in our very own neighborhood, close to the main entrance, easily spotted by anyone driving or walking by.
It turns out the structure was built by a neighbor friend who saw a LFL in another neighborhood close by and decided ours needed one too.
In his words:
“We thought it might help bring a stronger sense of community…and would be seen by everyone driving through. It was a family project [my kids] helped with a tape measure, clipboard, paper and pencil and made a diagram of another LFL, taking measurements and writing them down, with emphasis on measure twice, write once. After that, I did the building, but my kids both helped paint and chose the outside artwork. [In the future] I would like to see a mix of adult and children’s books, but then also announcements of neighborhood events and/or maybe even a celebrations page of achievements in the neighborhood, birthdays coming up, lemonade stands, flyers for lawn mowing. It would also be fun to re-paint the sides of the library every year and have different families add their own artwork.”
-Chaz Sinn, LFL Builder and Owner of Guys and Dollies and Stir Cold Brew Coffee (sold at Bloomingfoods & Bloomington Bagel Company)
Construction (and artwork) by Chaz Sinn and family.
Recently, I asked my kids to gather up some books they have outgrown so that we can stock our new hyper-local LFL with titles. I promised I’d add some of my own (a minor solution to major book-hoarding tendencies, bonus!). After all, donating books is the least we can do after years of benefiting from the literary generosity of others.
Who would expect that behind such a small front door would live the big power of new ideas, industrious neighbors, and books?
Elementary school library books about the climate crisis.
The Library at My Kid’s Elementary School
I volunteer here most weeks when my two children’s classes are visiting during their library times. Sure, the groups can be loud and boisterous (they’re KIDS after all), and listening skills are ever-developing… but oh the joy of watching them discovering books, reading on benches, searching for titles on the computer, and bemoaning the fact that the graphic novel they so desperately want has already been checked out.
There is also an entire shelf devoted to books on climate change and how to cope with it which is alternately hopeful and heartbreaking. My volunteer time allows me to hug my kids during their school day, listen to their classmate’s entertaining and enlightening chatter, shelve books, and admire the librarian’s patience.
The Graphic Novel section is a hotbed of activity.
Tea and a Healthy Breakfast
Full disclosure: there were times, especially during my citified corporate days, when TWO Venti-sized coffees would fuel my sunrise to sunset. This approach worked for a long time, but that excess of caffeine also fueled anxiety, a racing heart rate, digestive issues, and a restless sleep cycle. The food complement to this ill-advised start to my day was usually a croissant or pastry.
These days, my mornings begin with tea. Specifically, a Chai variety or, more recently, a lavender tea. The soothing yet invigorating liquid invites contemplation and encourages vigor, and the tea tags are usually surprisingly prescient.
Food-wise, a bowl with oatmeal or yogurt is piled with berries and other fruit, chopped nuts, and granola, and topped off by foamed oat milk.
What starts well tends to end well and a day is no exception.
A handful of blueberries a day helps keep memory loss at bay. Tea tags of note.
Sunsets and Sunrises
In all honesty, I catch sunsets more frequently than sunrises. Our house faces West and often, as the day comes to a close, I’ll notice a faint pink glow lighting up the walls opposite the front bay window. That’s when I know the sunset is particularly brilliant and that it’s time to drop everything and savor the view. It’s tempting to talk oneself out of going outside (oh just a few more dishes and you’ll be done…it’s so hot/cold out there..but I can see it from the couch!).
This is when I remind myself of three close friends my age who died far too young (Shubana Zwicker, Amy Wagner, and Chris Van Bebber). I consider how each of these friends lived and embraced every moment of their lives and how (I assume) they are no longer able to see the sun offering its glory each day, but I sure am.
I walk outside to accept the artistry in the sky.
Trees and sky, collaborating on the sunset. A stop sign with a view. Backyard sunrise.
A Pair of Green Crocs
Sometimes, it’s as simple as a good pair of shoes. I’ve endured some teasing about them through the years, but my indoor shoes are nothing but comfortable. I adore their bright green shade and the pie charm is an homage to my pie-making grandmother.
What’s on your list of things that offer hope and joy?
It was in March 2022 that I realized how much the United States had changed.
Our family of four is taking our first airplane flight in three and a half years. The pandemic and financial considerations have conspired to keep us close to home. Oh, who am I kidding, we weren’t just “close” to home, we wereat home, for an entire year.
Online school, work, life, and three daily meals, all conducted under the same roof with the same four people, day in and day out. We have stayed healthy (a different story for many, including other family members and friends). We are grateful for our solid, safe house but it has been a long, trying stretch. Now that spring has arrived, we are more than ready for a change of scenery.
The pandemic, however, cares not that we are going stir-crazy and continues to rage. Traveling by air feels unfamiliar and somewhat dangerous. From the vantage point of my insulated daily life in a mid-sized midwestern city, it is hard to imagine the transformations the United States has undergone in the approximately two years since I last crossed state lines.
Any moment a child rests on an airplane is a win.
My eight and nine-year-olds are giddy with excitement as we board the plane, chattering throughout the process, asking frequent questions, and pointing in every direction “Is that the pilot? How many helpers (stewards and stewardesses) are there? “It’s cold in here! (the jetway). “Can I have my snack yet? (umm, we just sat down). Son and husband sit together, and my daughter and I settle in across the aisle.
Despite decades of flying under my belt I too feel excitement about take-off, as well as a renewed appreciation for the ability to travel at all. The months spent at home have helped me realize how much I took for granted the familiarity of airports, the invigorating bustle of humanity, and the thrill of jetting off to new places.
As we get comfortable, I become aware of a commotion a few rows ahead. Glancing over the seat backs I spot a man in his forties gesturing in a frustrated way. The attendants have asked him to put his oversized bag into an overhead compartment and he does not agree with their request. He feels inconvenienced and lets everyone around him know “Those son-of-a bitches in Washington” he says, loud enough for all of us in surrounding rows to hear, “They were supposed to lift the mask mandate but now they aren’t.” He thumps down out of view, but his mutterings are still audible.
A stewardess happens by on her way down the aisle and requests politely “Please put your mask on, sir.” A few minutes pass and another flight attendant delivers the same appeal. Both pleas go unheeded.
By now we have pushed off from the jetway and passengers all around are intent on their screens, books, phones, and laps. My daughter and I investigate seat-back screens and unpack water bottles and treats. I notice that no one offers opinions or gets involved with the uppity passenger in the way they might have three years ago. More time passes and we are now sitting on the runway. Didn’t the pilot just say we were about to get in line for take-off? Cabin lights dim and my daughter asks for the eighth time if we are in the air yet. She was so young when the pandemic began that she doesn’t remember the sequence of events involved in flying or what a full-body experience it can be when a flight takes off.
The voice of the man three rows ahead rises again, and I feel a tightening in my chest. It sounds as if his voice is being forced out of his throat, the stream of discontented words floating above our seats. I know man, I want to say. We’re all tired of this. This destruction, this frustration, this upending of our lives. Why not wear an uncomfortable mask for a few hours to offer help to your fellow humans–to avoid someone carrying something home to their kids/elders, into their weak immune system, or worse?
I check myself and decide to refuse anger. I take the example of the patient flight attendants tending to this man. They treat him with firm respect. The first was a tall willowy Black stewardess with a kind, direct gaze. Minutes tick forward, the plane continues to idle in place. My daughter doesn’t mind, she realizes the screen in the seat back is hers and hers alone! She can choose a movie for herself!
Suddenly, the pilot’s disembodied voice rings out through the cabin “Ladies and gentlemen, to let you know the reason for our delay, we had a passenger who was unwilling to comply with our mask rule, and we were planning to return to the runway. The passenger has now decided to comply. We want you to know that we don’t necessarily enjoy these rules either but we have them in place for our passenger’s safety.”
Mid-flight, somewhere over the state of Tennessee, I wonder at the foundations of our democracy and whether the current political climate in the United States will ever allow for a thoughtful discussion of the roots of inequality and true injustice. My daughter watches “Encanto” (the fifth time she has seen it).
Outside our tin capsule, the sun has risen. My daughter points out a constellation of tiny reflections glinting off the pink ruby in my wedding ring. “The sun did it just for us!” she says.
A small marvel at 35,000 feet.
“We apologize for being late but we are making up as much time as we can” announces the pilot as we begin to descend to the Atlanta airport. A few passengers will miss their connections due to our late take-off, an entirely avoidable inconvenience. Is it too late for my country, I wonder, can we make up for all the time we spend judging, disagreeing, and complaining?
Maybe the fact that no one got outwardly angry at this man, that he eventually complied with the airline’s request, that the flight took off at all, is a win. Life (and flights) move forward whether or not we agree with the messy details.
A week later, on the plane ride home, one of my preschool students happens to be in the seat one row in front of me. The excited four-year-old is in awe that his teacher is there, on the same plane as him! He can see me through the crack between the two seats ahead of my son and me. “I want to tell you a secret,” he says, and I lean my head forward so that his voice is funneled directly into my waiting ear “Do you know…do you know” he splutters sweetly “this plane is going to fly in the air!”
His pure excitement is a reminder that astonishment can exist next door to cynicism. One human leans toward bitterness and contempt and another is innocent and enchanted. Wonder can be a seatmate to dissolution and they are both here, crammed into one cabin and one country, together.
Originally, I had a different post in mind. I will share more about my collection of materials soon, but there is something else I want to write about this week.
I recently found myself at a table with three girlfriends enjoying a celebratory dinner. Shadows were getting long on that chilly December day as we gathered at an upscale eatery in the charming Indianapolis, Indiana suburb of Carmel. Blocks crowded with quaint shops stretched out around us; boughs of fragrant greenery decorated our cozy booth and holiday lights twinkled on the ceiling above.
The four of us were there to celebrate an anniversary. Not a birthday, a career milestone, or a relationship. Instead, we were celebrating a sobriety anniversary. One friend had invited us to gather with her to mark and acknowledge two years of living successfully alcohol-free. The remaining three of us were sober as well, two of us closing in on three years and our fourth friend with an impressive thirteen years under her belt.
Attractive displays at Loren’s AF Beverages in Carmel, Indiana
Alcohol-free Tequila?! Is the world ending?
Before the restaurant, we visited a sleek alcohol-free beverage store (I know, what a concept) where we sampled a distilled botanical “gin alternative” and did warming shots of spirit-less cinnamon “schnapps” out of tiny plastic cups. It was heartening to learn that the shop is thriving and that non-alcoholic beer sales grew by 23 percent in the U.S. in 2019. There is a sense of camaraderie and enjoyment that comes from cradling a refreshment in your hand as well as browsing in a shop with friends and we welcomed the chance to do both.
When I was drinking, I saw the world differently. I imagined that all of us imbibers belonged at one long festive table, laughing, telling stories, and planning trips. We were the interesting ones, the adventurous ones, and the entertaining ones. In my view, the non-drinkers belonged at a separate slab entirely, far off in the corner keeping themselves company with their boring conversations, their vanilla clothing/hairstyles, and their staid and mostly uneventful lives (apparently alcohol fueled my judgmental side as well).
I did form many lasting friendships and connections over my decades as a drinker, and I acknowledge without judgement that there are many adults in the world for whom alcohol is not a problem. However, I’ve also come to understand that much of what I thought was deep and meaningful while drinking was in reality often fleeting and circumstantial. One of the greatest gifts of being free of alcohol is that I settle entirely into each moment of my life, I am truly present in a way I haven’t been since I was a child. I want nothing more than where I am, nothing more than who I am with–especially when I am around people I enjoy and love. There is a sense of savoring that infuses my days and…bonus!…I remember every single detail. No more mental fast-forwarding, gritting my teeth until I can relax later with a drink in my hand in a space momentarily free of life’s bothersome minutiae.
Absorbing the unexpected beauty of a cold winter evening.
The four of us covered a lot of subjects in our booth that afternoon. The evolution of our personal histories, friendships, relationships. The joy and pain and freedom we have in our sober lives. The pride we feel in ourselves and each other, and the shame we are still working to shed and/or embrace. Adventures we have embarked on since we got sober, ambitious plans we have for the future (sober social pop-up events, anyone?). I felt the tears well up as I described the poignant sweetness and waves of gratitude I experience daily with my family, my health, my writing, my clarity.
I shared a recently-discovered quote with my friends;
“Not drinking has lifted a veil on every part of my life including the bonkers me, the energetic me, the creative me, the poetic me, the loving me, the joyful me, the angry me, the what-the-f*ck me, the connector me, the boundaries-me, the open me, the closed me — essentially all the me’s of me.”
~Susan Christina, Hola Sober
Across the restaurant I spotted a group of friends in their twenties, drinks crowding the tabletop, laughing, and looking at their phones. If they glanced over at us, I wondered what they would see. A table of four middle-aged-ish women sharing a meal, engaged in serious conversation, sipping tea and sparkling water (side note: why are so many restaurants missing out on the potentially lucrative “mocktail” market? No, we do not want tonic water with lime thankyouverymuch, we want something designed to stand alone and taste great sans alcohol).
Do we appear boring and colorless over here in the corner booth, living out our uneventful, dull lives?
Now I know nothing could be further from the truth.
Still...however...maybe... 
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