Mundane Miracles: How Wonder and Awe Hide in Plain Sight

I’ve always found it interesting when someone says they don’t believe in miracles. 
They give their reasons, largely using science as the basis for why miracles can’t exist.
If everything can be explained, they say, there’s no mystery. No miracle. 

I’ve watched their mouths contort to create the words for their explanations. 
I’ve heard them change the air into their voice. 
They stand in front of me with a skeleton holding their shape.
A heart beating on its own.
Lungs filtering air into life.
And they don’t see it. 

Existence is the miracle.
Even if it can be explained. 

Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “Many people are alive but don’t touch the miracle of being alive.” I think about that often—how easy it is to miss what’s right here.

I don’t know why so many of us believe science and awe can’t live in the same experience.
Just because we know how something works doesn’t mean it’s somehow less amazing to witness.
Knowing how doesn’t erase the magic of it existing. 

Doctors can explain how my hands work.
The way the joints and tendons act as hinges for movement.
How my nerves send signals from my brain to my fingertips causing them to extend or contract based on my needs at the time.
That the thicker skin on my palms is needed for both strength and protection.
All of that can be true and I can still be amazed by my ability to grasp on to things.
By opposable thumbs, by fingernails that grow, by the fact I have hands at all.
Science doesn’t diminish the miracle by explaining it. It makes it more astonishing. 

I had a 1 in 400 trillion chance of being alive in this moment with this exact body.
That’s as close to impossible as it gets. Yet here I am.
That’s a miracle. 

I don’t need to stand at the edge of an ocean or see pictures of space to feel awe and wonder.
I just need to observe my breath.
To remember I woke up this morning when others around the world didn’t.
That I get to move, think, breathe, and live for another day.
That’s a miracle. 

I get to watch my son prepare for college.
Have coffee with my husband.
Hold my dog’s paw while he sleeps next to me on the couch.
I get to listen to music.
Taste delicious food, laugh with friends, move my body, watch sunbeams slide across the floor. These are ordinary miracles and they are happening now. 

I just forget they are miracles until I pause, stop the autopilot, and remember.
I often assume because it’s “normal” it can’t be special.
So when I’m not present in my life, I ignore the mundane instead of seeing it as magic. 

I’ve lived much of my life not noticing or appreciating the miracle of being alive.
Of taking it all for granted.
I even thought about ending my miracle almost 25 years ago.
I was drowning in invisible pain and desperate for relief.
I wanted peace more than I wanted aliveness.
I thought whatever came after death would bring it and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I was tired. Alone. Overwhelmed. 

Obviously, I stuck around.
I’m glad I did.
I have my son. My husband. My dog. My life.
And I have peace. 

I think a lot about that version of me that wanted to end her miracle early.
I’m sad about how hard it was for her.
I ache knowing she carried it all alone.
But I know she’s still in me and every mundane miracle I notice is another way I prove it was worth it.
The struggle. The white-knuckling her way through each day.
It mattered because I can sit here today and appreciate the feeling of my own breath.
Of witnessing sunsets.
Of tasting fresh orange juice.
Of listening to my son share facts he finds fascinating. 

These are all wonders I wouldn’t get to witness if she hadn’t held on. 

So I notice the miracles. For her and for me.
I come back to the present moment over and over again.
Observing the magic happening all around and within me.

Like this breath.

And this one.

And this one.