“Red Rover, Red Rover, let Bobby come over!”I can feel the wind on my face, the gravel at my feet — oh so minutely, but with enough realness to pull me back seven decades, into one of the earliest moments of my becoming.For some reason I find myself, at age 77, pondering such moments — not simply random memories from childhood but, as I say, moments of my becoming: openings of awareness that were entirely unexpected and utterly personal and thus, oh so quietly secret. This is me?I think my sudden fascination with such moments shimmers beyond me. I am ...