I sit watching an opera in a somewhat regal auditorium, and for a moment, I am lost in a murmuration of memory, taking me back to when I was a boy in school. And it occurs to me just then: what a marvellous education I have had! This is not to say that it was filled with lessons about baroque operas or that I could tell the Gymnopédies apart or knew words that were long and only got longer as I aged, no. Instead, I was given, more or less, the right tools in the toolbox of my mind. And sure, there has been a lot of independent education of my own self that I carried on over the years, what with books and courses, and conversations most of all, but I reckon even all that was just a response to my years as a boy. And even in the years of my rebellion—of which there were several toward the end of my time at school—I simply was set onto a path of greater discovery. One that, I believe, would not be possible had I not been disconcerted with what was present. The limitations were catalysts, and all that was good, I still carry with me. And I reckon I shall give credit where credit is due, and remember those years not with the ill will of a rebel any longer but with reverence for even rebellion, I reckon, must be an idea I heard there in the walls of the classroom, or outside, from the few teachers who cared enough to be remembered today, in stray thought, or otherwise.