One day I set my yellow bike by the steps, and scrambled into the house. Momma gave me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich pie, the kind that she made by cutting off the crust with the peanut-butter jar lid. It was a sweet-smelling summer afternoon, and the heat was softened by a gentle breeze. I straddled a kitchen chair as I ate my sandwich pie, and gazed lazily out the window. Suddenly, without much warning at all, the skies seemed to completely fall out with pouring sheets of rain--and the sun still shone! The sun caught and twinkled in the rain, it peeked through the curtains of rushing droplets, winking and blinking; and it glistened on my bike. In my lazy trance, I found myself completely mesmerized with the rain on my bike. Tiny rivulets ran about the tilting handle bars. Balanced sideways as it was against the steps, my bike jiggled slightly with the slapping impact of the fat raindrops. And then, just as I had found myself hoping, the back wheel spun ever so slightly, almost reluctantly, like a mill wheel, with wet little drops half-heartedly fluttering off to the side. Then the wheel spun slowly back and rested, as if its work was done. And it was done, because just as soon as the rain had come, it was gone.

Sitting on my balcony I take a delight in looking at the sea. Today it is calm, like a mirror, like a shiny polished silver plate. I can spend hours sitting here, contemplating, just looking, waiting, watching. Occasionally a white seagull will fly by, a tiny boat may sail smoothly along and get lost in the distance. Far out and close to the horizon, you will imagine rather than really see the large container carrying cargo ships and maybe one or another cruise liner, sailing in the distance, sailing on the invisible border line that separates the waters from the sky. You can feel the sea, you can hear it, you can smell it, and it will leave you yearning, wanting to stay and absorb it, to breathe it, it will fill your dreams. Sitting here on my balcony, I enjoy the song of the birds as they take a rest in the yellow flame tree next to the house. It is full of leaves and flowers and hard working bees. Their song fills my ears while the sea gives my eyes an incredible delight that I never tire of admiring. Sometimes, with the storms, its power frightens me and I am glad I am not out, helplessly exposed to its violence but safe and dry here on my balcony. My thoughts drift back in time and I see shades of sailors lost between waves but when I open my eyes, the sea is still peaceful and calm. Its beauty once again amazes me and I realise how lucky I am. A soft breeze touches me and the world around me, gently the leaves of the flame tree start to move. The sea, its waves now gently moving, reflects sunbeams in shades of blue and green, shining like stars. While the birds continue their song and the sun warms the afternoon, frayed white clouds dancing over blue sky announce a change of weather. I consider going inside but then decide I´d rather stay on my balcony and wait for the rain to come.

Stop what you're doing. Please. Whatever it is, I need you to stop for a moment, and focus. Pause your music, put your food to the side, and just stop. It may sound like an odd request, but I need you to focus on your surroundings. To feel the texture of your clothes against your skin. Is the fabric soft? Rough? Pay attention to the air as it brushes against your lips and rushes into your mouth and lungs; feel your chest collapse when you breathe out seconds later. I need you to look up and pay attention to the details of the room you're in. Is it light? Dark? Colorful or dull or some combination of the two? Are you cold, or are you melting in the summer heat? Can you smell rain? I need you to feel your pulse. Can you feel your heartbeat? Good. I need you to hold your hand for a few seconds and feel the warmth of your skin—let your thumb drag against the top of your knuckles. What is that like? Had you forgotten what the feeling of your own flesh felt like? No? Okay, you can continue as you were. Resume your music, take another bite of your snack. I'm done asking you to actively participate. ...You're curious as to why I asked you to do these things, aren't you. Well, once upon a time, when I was very much a young child, I read a book where it was revealed that a minor character had been trapped in a book for fifty years. At the time, I hadn't paid much attention to it—the characters never lingered on that fact, not even the boy in question, so there was no reason for me to give it any mind. It certainly didn't help that the character was a villain in the story, one who did terrible, awful things, whom I was not supposed to sympathize with. It was never made into a big deal, so I forgot it. It was only when I reread that book for what was probably the sixth or seventh time that I actually thought through the implications of such a thing. Fifty years. What that it be like? To be stuck in a book for so long? I couldn't help but think it might be comparable to a box. A small, tiny box, with no light. Worse yet, you can't touch anything, can't feel anything. A normal box, at least, would allow you to feel the walls around you. You might hear the sounds made by anything outside the box, but this isn't a normal box. This box is magic, remember, which means you can't see anything, you can't feel anything. I might go as far as saying that even something as simple and normal as breathing might be impossible. The complete and utter lack of anything would be more than enough to drive one mad after only spending a week in such a box. But fifty years? As someone who hasn't lived to be half of that yet, this is entirely beyond my realm of comprehension. It's a lesson in gratitude, though it might not look like it at first. It's why I began to put myself through that little exercise I asked you to do earlier. If you were to go fifty years without so much as a single breath, with nothing but your own thoughts for company...well, I don't think either of us want to know what that looks like. We rely on our sight, our hearing, our touch, everything, so much so I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to go without them. One or two, yes, but to lose all of them? To be stuck not only blind and deaf, but to be so lost there is absolutely nothing that will let you orient yourself? To be stuck in darkness without the pulse of your own heartbeat there to steady you? Truly, sensory deprivation is one of the worst tortures humanity could devise for itself. But...as awful as it is, that's what makes me grateful—the fact that I still have this. That I can take any moment out of the day and look around myself, hold onto the seconds as they slip by and comfort myself with the fact that I can still feel my sweater as it slides against my skin. I can still smell the laundry detergent that lingers in the threads of the fabric. I can hear my roommates bickering in the kitchen about who does the dishes and who picks the music. I can admire the way the light refracts through my window and pours tiny rainbows across the walls. It's odd, how much this tiny thought about a random character actually ended up changing my life so much. I've picked up another language —one that I can speak with my hands— and in doing so I've learned so much about people who live without their hearing. I've done enough research on the use of solitary confinement in prison systems and the negative effects it has on a person that I should probably just write my next essay on that. I wake up just about every day thrilled with that I still have as much as I do, and it encourages me to do my best. So, I was hoping that this lesson —as dark and terrifying as it might be at first glance— might help you, too. The world is a beautiful, beautiful, place, and I find it and all of its many gifts to be just so amazing. I think it's important we appreciate every little detail, no matter how small, for as long as we can.