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I sat on the beach for an hour today and marveled at the infinite beauty of the ocean. It stretched along the horizon, endlessly, seamlessly; blending hues of emerald and seafoam, like a Monet painting. The powdery sand sparkled and winked in the sunlight. I stuck my hands in the warm grains, then lifted a handful and let it sift slowly through my fingers. As I watched the silvery sand spill to the ground, I wondered how many millions and millions of grains made up this one beach. I realized I was like a grain of sand, one of many in a wide, wonderful world. I looked back out at the ocean. It was clear and smooth and vast and empty. No boats bobbed along the surface, no swimmers splashed in the surf. It was then I noticed a single sea turtle struggling against a wave. Watching it reminded me how very small we are in this universe. This knowledge made me feel at peace and, yet, a little sad.

It was 1985 . Bill Cosby was filling the airwaves with his psychedelic sweaters and slapstick style of dance; the Coca-Cola Corporation was trying to force their New Coke down the throats of skeptical consumers; a joint American-French expedition was braving frigid waters in an attempt to locate the Titanic; and Prince and The Revolution were taking us Around the World in a Day with songs like “Pop Life” and “Raspberry Beret.” I was in eleventh grade. I had a mouth full of braces and a thin purple braid that hung down my back that I thought made me look “rad.” I had little interest in school (outside the social opportunities the establishment could provide me), my GPA was less than spectacular, and I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life after I graduated from high school. I would sit in class, listening to my English teacher wax poetic about the brilliant literary devices employed by Edgar Allen Poe or the Empress of the Onomatopoeia, Emily Dickinson. I would try to memorize t