Here is a picture of early morning light on the St. Croix River.
It isn’t an extraordinary picture. I know that.
But every time I look at it, I feel a vertiginous sense of wonder.
My first memory is of water, of standing on the beach in Bay Ridge, Maryland, watching as a wave came in and grabbed at the tips of my shoes. My father picked me up just before the water covered my feet.
And now, here I am, forty-five years later, thousands of miles away, looking at a different body of water, still full of fear and hope and wonder.
How did I get here?
Where has all that time gone?

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