"Who were you before someone else told you who to be?"

I was 45 when a writing instructor asked this question in a class. Even though I was sitting still in a chair, I felt like Wylie Coyote, tied to the end of the boulder that he pushes over the cliff edge, hoping it will land on the roadrunner. As Wylie pushes the boulder over and realizes that he will be going in the same direction, his feet push as hard as they can against the ground, hoping that magically, he will not end up where the boulder ends up. Yet, that’s exactly where Wylie ended up.

That is where I ended up, figuratively, dragged into a buried memory that surfaced only at that very moment.

El Paso, Texas, 1968; the southwestern desert. I am five years old. I am playing outside with my across the street neighbor and best friend, Christy, riding my bike up and down our street, venturing to 7-Eleven for a 10-cent Hershey chocolate bar. Getting there is uphill a bit; I have to pedal hard.

Though I know what I am going to buy, I stand in front of the candy section for a long time, inspecting each type to see if it is something new, something I might like to try. But, I only have a dime, and I am unwilling to risk of trying something I might not like. Nope, Hershey’s chocolate is the best bet.

The return trip is faster and easier, mostly downhill. This is the simple cycle of my life, and this memory is smooth, like a gently rolling landscape with few remarkable features: I could be writing about any one of a thousand days.

There came one day that was chillier than most. It is vivid as the present: The ride home from 7-Eleven is cooler. My legs are longer than Christy’s, affording me a stronger cycling motion on my bigger bike. I can’t see my shadow in the street; the sun has disappeared behind a strange grey cloud. I am pedaling so quickly the breeze has chilled my ears.

I notice small, white raindrops polka-dotting my arms, my thighs, the sidewalk in front and the grass beside me. They drop slowly, like the beginning of a rainstorm that lingers for a while; but doesn’t leave much in the way of water. These drops are colder than rain, and prettier. I look around; the polka dots fall on the roofs of the houses, too, and then disappear as well. And then the split-second transition from question to epiphany.

“Snow!” Christy and I yell, simultaneously. We have never seen real snow before, except in picture books and national weather forecasts.

It is like the moment when water pours from the pump into Helen Keller’s hands. Sheer, visceral ecstasy floods my body in this instant of connection. I drop my bike onto the grass, running in the grass, sleeveless arms outstretched. The cold droplets melt as quickly as I can capture their unique shapes and designs. Their trickles still give me goose bumps. My towhead pigtails disguise the flakes but they dapple Christy’s strawberry blond hair with more white polka dots. Instinctively, I keep my face pointed to the sky, holding out my tongue, catching the confetti as it falls. Bewilderment, fascination, joy; all three emotions experienced within nano-seconds of one another.

As instantly as it began, the snow ends; but not before imprinting a memory tableau in my brain; a single moment when my young soul is fully revealed.
Who was I before someone else told me who to be?

I was a happy, wandering, playful little girl, amazed by the unexplainable, excited by new discoveries, embracing experiences, accepting glorious gifts, and grateful to be the chosen recipient of it all. Soon after, other voices started telling me who to be. It has taken a journey of forty years to rediscover this wondrous child. Now, I hold her close every day, doing my best to honor her for all she was, is, and hopes to be.

To purchase your copy of "Making a Pearl from the Grit of Life" visit sharonrainey.com

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SHARON RAINEY is currently working on her second book on Living with a Chronic Disease due out in 2011. She shares her Lyme journey to recovery on sharonlivingwithlyme.com Making a Pearl from the Grit of Life is her first novel.