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I wonder how many miracles I have walked past today. The word itself may be part of the problem. Miracle. I have made it too large. I have imagined seas dividing, fire descending, the sky opening, something so impossible that I would have no choice but to believe. And all the while, morning has been happening. I woke. Light found the window. Somewhere beyond the glass a bird sang for no reason I could understand. No audience. No admission. No applause. It simply sang. A cloud moved slowly across the sky carrying within itself enough water for a river. Someone heard an old song for perhaps the hundredth time and discovered that on this particular morning it contained something that had not been there before. Or perhaps it had always been there and the listener had changed. I am beginning to wonder whether I have been waiting for thunder while something quieter has been speaking. Perhaps I have spent too much time asking life for a sign while standing inside the sign itself. This day, for instance. Nothing remarkable about it at first glance. A Tuesday-looking sort of day, even when it is not Tuesday. Yet there it is. A day that has never existed before and will never exist again. Then there is music. I cannot think about ordinary miracles without thinking about music.
A window bathed in soft natural light reveals a peaceful outdoor scene with a bird perched on a branch, while indoors, a rustic wooden table holds a ceramic mug, a glass vase with dried plants, an open notebook with handwritten text, and a pen. The scene is illuminated by sunlight streaming through the window, casting gentle shadows and creating a warm, tranquil atmosphere. The image is a split composition with the right side showing the window scene and the left side containing text from a poem or essay about miracles and the appreciation of everyday occurrences.
