I think a lot about The Big One. You know, the earthquake that’s going to destroy the West Coast and send a tsunami surging into coastal cities and towns across Oregon and California? I ask myself, What would I do if The Big One hit right now? That question brings everything in my immediate environment into sharp relief. I notice the details like if I’m near an open space or in a building. Am I near fresh water? Can I access food?

Somehow, it’s only the “big” emergencies that warrant fear-induced planning. Everyone you know will die. This fact alone should make you treat the people in your life with presence and grace. But imagine if you knew that this was the last day you would ever have. How would the small things–the matrix of condensation on a glass, yellow rivulets of yolk on your breakfast plate, the wash of grey colors in the overcast sky–make you stop and stare in awe? What wonders lie around us that we don’t notice because we have seen them before?

If you knew that this was the very last time you would see a person, that would imbue your interaction with them with new meaning. I’ve tried this trick with my brother. We were taking a break from the manual labor we were doing, and I looked over at his face. This is the last time I will ever see my brother, I thought. It was a heartbreaking fact that forced me to appreciate everything about him. I heard his words in a completely different light. I noticed our surroundings more–a riot of greenery on the hillside next to us, a smattering of leaves stuck in the grass, amorphous clouds suspended in the blue air. It was a deeply satisfying conversation we had while time slowed to a syrupy drip. It was a simple break from work, but it meant the world to me–and wouldn’t have if I had treated it like every other break we had taken.

That night, I was walking through some mown grass and worried that I would get uncomfortable grass clippings in my socks. I thought to myself, This is the last time I will ever experience this moment. Suddenly, I tuned into the cool air around me. I noticed how the light was hitting the grass, how everything around me was being kissed by dusk. Walking in the clippings–something I had tried to avoid all day–became a joy. It was all so meaningful. “Knowing” that it was the last time I was going to experience the Earth in this way made things clear and beautiful. I was deeply appreciative just to be alive. It was a miracle to simply exist. I was present.

Life without noticing is food without flavor. It’s an engine without gasoline, a gazelle without legs. When you see everything as its final form before either it disappears or you do, you value it so much more. One day, the people and things you love will actually leave you. Don’t be stuck wondering if you used the time with them properly. Using this technique is like opening up an oyster and realizing that the shell was only half of the amazing gift. Pressing on life with this statement–This is the last time I will ever experience this–yields infinite benefits. Joy is just a single sentence away.