I’m here. Actually, by the time I post this, I will have been there: my first class.

I left home early because I wasn’t sure how bad traffic would be in the city—it wasn’t, and I arrived on campus with 40 minutes to spare. So after being reassured by a campus cop that I wouldn’t be ticketed for parting in a permit-only lot, I began walking around the campus a bit. It’s a beautiful place, with many heavily-shaded green areas. One was right in front of K Hall, where I would have my class, so I sauntered around, trying to soak in the educational ambiance.

I walked over to a large concrete bench, mottled from time and weather. Just below the seat were engraved the words “Class of 1896.” A sudden emotion washed over me, and I sat down. I was connected, if only peripherally, to the past and to the thousands of students who had sat on that bench before me. I was bound to and part of the primordial need to learn and grow. The feeling was nearly overwhelming, and I wanted to grab every student who passed me, to shake them and demand that they understand how lucky they were to be here, and how important their place was. I wanted to shout, “Seize every opportunity, enjoy every minute!”

I didn’t, of course. Instead, I strolled around the mini-quad, enjoying the sounds of the trees, the smell of the lake, the cool depth of the shade. There were several sidewalk paths throughout, and it gave me satisfaction to see how they, too, were as interconnected as our lives. Everything fit, the stars were aligned, it was right.

It was time. I entered K Hall.