Dear Emma,

Hi Tinker. You’ve started Kindergarten, it is a big deal, even if you won’t remember it as such down the road, and I wanted to write you a letter, a message in a bottle. I hope you find this one day on an Internet like mine, one that empowered me to reach for my dreams.

In 1988, before I met Mommy, my younger brother and I were in trouble. It’s a long story, but importantly, both of us are blessed with a fantastic family now. We had to overcome much to get to where we are.

One of the tools to achieve that, for me, was a book of short stories that contained nuggets of wisdom. Wisdom that I saw few around me followed, but those that did seemed… happier… more at peace with themselves and the nature of the world. This didn’t result in complacency, but in an openness that enabled them to see the big picture, act upon it, and be true to themselves in their journey.

I learned about the book from an unlikely source, from a Rolling Stone article in 1990, on Steven Tyler, and Aerosmith, and its fight back from destruction.

It’s called, “All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”, by Robert Fulghum. Emma, my hope is you’re going to experience these lessons growing in your heart and mind (hopefully Mommy, me, all your grandparents, aunts and uncles, have demonstrated these things for you – I think we have).

The ideas in the book seem simple, but in practice, they aren’t. For example, ‘play fair’, when you will find, and it breaks my heart that this is so, that the world isn’t fair, and that some actually consider the idea of playing fair… weak. It’s not. Or take not hitting people. Always try and uphold it, however, there will be times you’ll be faced with a choice to defend yourself and others. And it will test your integrity and what you believe.

It is confusing and messy. But know this:

If you need to ask anything, ever, your entire family will try and answer it. There is no such thing as a dumb question. And if someone implies otherwise, have them see me (or your Grandpops, or uncles, or Grandmoms, or Mommy). We’ll set them straight.

Experience is a hard teacher, because she gives the test first, the lesson after. Ask!

Most important, you have an internal compass pointing at true North. Pointing at your heart, at truth and kindness. Listen to it. If you are feeling something is wrong – trust yourself – and think of the credo outlined at the beginning of this book.

It is a credo your Mommy and me believe in (she embodies this so much – she leads and teaches by example), and we hope you will too:

Each spring, for many years, I have set myself the task of writing a personal statement of belief: a Credo. When I was younger, the statement ran for many pages, trying to cover every base, with no loose ends. It sounded like a Supreme Court brief, as if words could resolve all conflicts about the meaning of existence.

The Credo has grown shorter in recent years – sometimes cynical, sometimes comical, and sometimes bland – but I keep working at it. Recently I set out to get the statement of personal belief down to one page in simple terms, fully understanding the naïve idealism that implied.

The inspiration for brevity came to me at a gasoline station. I managed to fill my old car’s tank with super deluxe high-octane go-juice. My old hoopy couldn’t handle it and got the willies – kept sputtering out at intersections and belching going downhill. I understood. My mind and my spirit get like that from time to time. Too much high-content information, and I get the existential willies. I keep sputtering out at intersections where life choices must be made and I either know too much or not enough. The examined life is no picnic.

I realized then that I already know most of what’s necessary to live a meaningful life – that it isn’t all that complicated. I know it. And have known it for a long, long time. Living it – well that’s another matter, yes? Here’s my Credo:

All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate-school mountain, but there in the sandpile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don’t hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don’t take things that aren’t yours.

Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life – learn some and think some and draw some and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.

Be aware of wonder.

Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup – they all die. So do we.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.

Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and equality and sane living.

Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or your government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm. Think what a better world it would be if we all – the whole world – had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always put things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess.

And it is still true, no matter how old you are – when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together.

We love you sweetheart,

Mommy and Daddy