Slipping into the seat of the desk at Washington Elementary was the easiest, and most welcome part of my day.

Snowpantsed and hooded, I waited at 7:25am for the yellow school bus by our mailbox on Van Dyke Road. I waddled up the giant stairs and plopped myself into the green pleather seat behind the Tech School student that was our bus driver. Everything was uncertain. Our house in the giant rear view mirror. The weather. The lessons. Even our fresh and fragile friendships. But I could feel it, the comfort, as I slipped off my boots and put them in the wooden cubby. Hanging my snow pants just above. Than my dampened coat. I put on my tennis shoes and walked over to my desk. My beautiful, wooden desk. You could say they were all the same, but I wouldn’t believe you. I knew mine was magic. I bent down and slid myself across the smooth wood. My feet on either side of the bar beneath me. My hands clasping the top of the platform for writing. I opened the lid and put my pencils in place. My erasers. Shuffled my papers and was saved.

When I saw the photo recently at the St. Paul history center of the young Native American Children in front of their forced school desks, it occurred to me, we are not all having the same experience. My elementary heart ached for them. I wanted them to feel the security, the possibility, the hope…

The thing is, we think we know. We think what is best for us is best for all. Sadly, I’m not sure we’ve learned all that much. I am as guilty as the next person, thinking what works for me should work for you. But I’m trying to do better. Be better. Let everyone find their own paths. In life and love. In joy and grief. We all need to be free to create our own magic.

I slide into the possibility of this morning. Hoping we all can find our way.