Picture this: it was the night before the AP United States History Exam. A friend and I were hurriedly cramming useless information about railroads and charter colonies into our brains- naturally to no avail. After hours of tediously pouring over textbooks and pages of badly scribbled notes, I was beyond restless. Pushing myself up, I declared I needed something amazing to eat in a loud, interjectory voice, making my friend jump (or wake up from where he had been starting to nod off, somewhere around the election of 1860. In any case, I was hungry, and marching upstairs to fix myself something to eat seemed like the best plan. So up we went, and when I asked for suggestion on the most wonderful and amazing thing I could get to eat, I was given suggestions such as omelets, ornate cookies, or even some exquisite chili left over from dinner. However, I had already made up my mind, and I told my friend I was making oatmeal.

“Oatmeal?” he said. I could almost hear the disappointed sneer in his voice “But that’s so plain and basic, and… boring.”

“No, no.” I replied, “I’m not just making oatmeal. I’m making oatmeal cake.”

My proclamation was met with furrowed eyebrows and a mask of confusion. I mean after all, who the heck knows what oatmeal cake is? The next half hour was spent with twirling spoons, glints of sparkling sugar, and the splash of shining droplets of water rolling off of bright, crimson strawberries, freshly washed. See, I showed him that by only adding a little bit of water and a lot of oats, you can make oatmeal that is stiff, hard, and can literally be shaped and cut. After making the “cake” and putting it in a bowl, sugar is then sprinkled on top. Actually, I shouldn’t say sprinkled, the sugar is dumped on top in a heaping mound, turning the entire structure white and glittery. Then, the cake is adorned with three fresh strawberries and served over a thin layer of milk, just to give it some moisture.

When I was done, I proudly displayed my creation for my friend.  “How did you do that?” he questioned, with a look of almost awe on his face. “Do what?” I mean, I had literally just showed him exactly what I had done to create my cake, hadn’t he been paying attention? “Make the little ordinary things so… extraordinary?” He finished.

I later realized how right he was.

I came to think about how I was constantly doing things exactly like that, seeing the possibility in even the simplest of things. When I went to New York City for the first time, I spent a good five minutes just staring and watching in fascination as a bunch of people went through revolving doors to get into a certain building. There was nothing grand about them, they were just revolving doors. But man, was it cool, almost elegant to see the constant flow and ebb of people coming and going, and the constant, dependable spinning of the glass panels that acted as spokes.

I guess that’s what I believe in most in this world. It’s too easy to get swept away by the overwhelming business and commotion in the world, all of the constant noise. People telling you who to be, what to do, where to go and how to live. It becomes hard to listen to the silence and have any time for yourself. I think that is why I notice these little pleasures so much. Even in the few seconds that I am there, amazed by something perfectly ordinary, I get a moment or two to myself, to relax, almost like a reflection. I see the oatmeal and I have learned to appreciate that it is amazing and wonderful. I see the revolving doors, and I can’t help but notice that they are beautiful. It’s moments like this that keep me sane in a world of constant movement.

So that is what I believe in. I believe in noticing all of the little beauties and the way the world can surprise you. I believe that anything can be a source of wonder and amazement. And I believe in oatmeal cake.