My high school is a spiritual place. It is bordered by very old oaks and pines. It’s in a tiny town called Grand Coteau in central Louisiana. The school is at the end of a road and is surrounded by pastureland with a half dozen cows. My schoolmates were very good people, and when I run into them or receive email, I am reminded of that. What good hearts they have. The school has a chapel that is dark and peaceful. It has its own cemetery. When I went there, the school was like a town in itself. Very ancient sisters lived upstairs--cloistered--. Some of them did chores or some teaching. There were locals who cooked, kept the building running, the banisters polished and smelling fragrant, the lawns trim, the camelias pruned. We wore uniforms: plaid skirts and white blouses. There was smoking, dirty jokes, petty thefts. We had film study: On the Waterfront, A Gentleman’s Agreement, Johnny Belinda. We curtsied to nuns and statues. We sang a lot. Often in harmony, often in French. Prayed a lot. Grace was sung in rounds: pour se repas et tous nos joies nous vous louons Seigneur.

I was very lucky. I went there from 6th through 12th grades. Seven years I belonged there. It was my home.

As a young adult, I worked nearly ten years at a state hospital with the same initials as my high school, ASH. The hospital has a campus of buildings on grounds lined by pecans and oaks. It has a chapel. Its own cemetery. Like at my high school, there is one main building that was built before the Civil War. There are people who live there and people who work there. There’s smoking, dirty jokes, petty thefts. Rock and roll bands. There are very very good people--who probably don’t look or talk like how many define ‘good’. Violent emotion and behavior is not uncommon. It is a hospital for those with mental illness, those who are suffering. It too is a spiritual place. Love permeates the place. It was my home.

I feel so unattached now, and so cautious about joining groups. But that doesn’t mean I am unable to belong again, to find home.