I remember lined paper and new, fresh-smelling pencils at the start of every school year. The sun was clear and bright and felt like it contained hope. The crispness of the air excited me. Colored pencils, markers, glue, sweet-scented erasers, colorful, cool, freshly bought in Lincoln, a box of my own in which to put things. Scratch-and-sniff stickers inside the lid of the box, a shiny new plastic ruler, pencil sharpener, new textbooks with smooth pages, the wind blowing in my hair, always wanting to take off and soar above the ground, but never being able to do so. Juxtaposition of excitement and letdown. Pride of the mind but humiliation of the body. Like an ancient religion seeking to mortify the flesh while exalting lo espiritual. Now I smell hope in every summer, burdens behind me, ready to do some real work -- good, pleasing, satisfying work that is fulfilling as winning the spelling bee or getting a cherry Scratch-and-Sniff Pac Man sticker on my math paper. Instead of the rush of winning, it's the rush of the quiet, the tranquil, the crispness of the air on the deck as I drink my coffee -- black, no cream, no sugar. Brand-new notebook in my hand, also a pencil that hasn't been sharpened, ideas so real I can taste them in my mouth, a wild wind telling me secrets of what was and what is to be. Above all, I still want to fly though now so much more capable. I am a gymnast, I am a ballerina, I hold the deck rail and feel the flexibility coursing through my body like the high action plot of the story that begs to be written. The mind drives the spirit, the spirit drives the body, the body drives the mind. Like a religion that looks above to the creator of the harmony of the universe. I can feel all of that harmony in me now, a divine gift. A divine gift of finally, above the vines, I am soaring but have only realized it this second. On the wind and the hope of the unseen. Juxtaposition of feet on the ground and soul aloft. Like a heavenly amante who whispers words of love not only into my ear but also onto the pages of that fresh, lined paper and the unsharpened pencil. The wind has come full circle.