When I was little, I use to love to go to the playground at the elementary school in our neighborhood and get pushed on the swings by my dad, or hang upside down on the thin bars of the green jungle gym, imagining what it would be like to walk on the sky. Nowadays, I would probably just throw up, but then, I was in my glory. I can still remember the wind on my face and the sinking in the pit of my stomach as he’d push me higher and higher on the swings, into the fluffy white clouds and, (for a minute, anyway) in an imagined tumble up and over the set’s top bar. In later years, when they built the jungle gym, and my friends and I used to go there to play, I’d curl deftly around the green bars, or hang lazily, my hands resting in the dirt, and watch the world from a different perspective. It was a humbling practice for a not-quite-teen, and one that formed and shaped my outlook on life.