Love Letter to Stonehurst

We wanted Elementary school to be what we had. A simple walk to school.

Elementary school for me is a time when everything still rolls along unconsciously. You’re learning how to sit in a row. How to hang your jacket in the closet. What meeting new people feels like, how to recognize true leaders, the difference a wonderful, loving, giving funny teacher can make. All these people behind you, helping to roll your small ball down the hill – an army of people, all there silently cheerfully, behind you, believing in you because you are a kid and worth the time.

I’m deep into motherhood. So deep that I can barely see out. In fact, I don’t want to look out because I’m fairly sure that’s another pile of laundry out there. I’ve been resisting seeing my life as divine. When I feel like life is overwhelming it’s usually because I’m trying too hard to make something happen, trying to force something my way. Maybe because there is enough in making a nice sandwich for the kids. Or pouring cereal, brushing hair, getting dressed, walking to school. Being there for seconds at a time. All these chores of taking care of, they’re the same as repetitions of prayers, as divine as mowing the overgrown lawn, smoothing everything down as best we can and then sometimes (rarely but sometimes) stopping to play in the midst of the garden of kids you’ve created.

The school even manages to do this, our tiny school. We have rules, and discipline, but we have art made out of tin foil, and flowers the kids have planted and shows where they sing. The teachers all show up, and despite the coffee spilling in their car or the bills looming or the country falling apart, they walk into the courtyard and show up and it all looks like dancing. They’re not trying to make it look like that, better than it is. It just looks like that. Or maybe I’m in love with them.

I’m in love with you all. This may be the first time I’ve written a group love letter (but hopefully not the last – this is California).

I love you, Stonehurst and all your talented, busy kid-builders.

I don’t care if Stonehurst is the perfect school. It’s the perfect school for me. It has me in it. It has the whole me in it. A whole person is a pretty valuable thing, when they’re aiming their hearts, determined to do good. What’s more valuable?

I happened to be in the library as all the teachers were coming in for their Tuesday meeting and it was like being backstage at the Oscars. Every face I knew, some better than others, but here they were, all in a room, these famous people. Acting like themselves. All these people that work hard to keep our little ball rolling. This IS the Oscars. It’s not Leo DiCaprio. Mr. Bohland is Leo DiCaprio. (As Lilly says, “Who’s Caprio?”) Exactly.


There’s no difference between school and space travel and being the Pope or being an ant Lilly and I look at on the path to and from school. This world is an unbelievably good place.

Thanks for tending to my little round sponges, for not giving up, for believing in your gift of every day, even for seconds a day. You guys build a nice bubble.

I read this at piano lessons the other day: “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.” We can hear your music, all you teachers. You make a difference with our family. If people flock to leave, we flock to stay.