One day in late June I left home early morning to reach the hilltops, as I knew that by noon it would be hot. I rode my bike for about two hours, enjoying the cool breeze and the sights and sounds of nature.

On the high ground meadowlarks were singing. Their breasts were gleaming yellow and the Vs on their chests were coal black. I stopped to look at a white clump of blossoms and was surprised to see how many bees and ants were already busy there.

I rode on, singing inside. I belonged right where I was. It was past midmorning when I reached the crest of the long hill.

I rode until the hill became too steep, then left the bike and quit the road. It was a stiff climb and when I reached the top I turned and looked out and away. In every direction I could see the horizon. I was on top of the world. After eating the sandwiches prepared by my mother, I lay back on the grass. I felt the warm earth beneath my shoulder blades. I was one with the earth, like the grass.

These boyhood memories still linger inside me and constantly remind me where I came from. How can we know who we are and where we’re going if we do not know where we came from?