The struggle of day to day meaning and purpose seems to be a consistent advent in my life. In the southern Minnesotan culture, where golden corn fields were my backyard, all I could dream of was doing something epic or being someone who made a significant difference in the world. As the years rolled by and I watched the sun rest over the golden kernels that feed the milieu we live in, this desire in my life has not diminished. Rather, quite the opposite has occurred. Since I have traversed past my later teens and into my final twenties, nothing has been more apparent to me than the fact that I am still gasping for air, this unseen thing that my innate nature is telling me I need, this imperceptible longing for meaning.