The world is filled with quiet miracles. Whenever someone loves another person (whether romantically, platonically, or anywhere on the spectrum in between) -- to me that is a miracle. The laughter of children. The joy of music. A hug on a day when you are feeling down. Walking through a lovely garden filled with flowers and birdsong. Mountains capped with snow.

Loving another person is a miracle. The sun shining on a snow clad mountain is a miracle. A horse running through a field, just for the joy in its own speed and power is a miracle. Music is a miracle. The first few flowers in spring are a miracle. A wonderful story is a miracle.

I grew up in a very unhappy family, with a violent and mentally ill parent. My grandfather was a murderer (he killed someone and was found criminally insane) and while I have no proof, I think he must have done monstrous things to his children. Two of his six children grew up and were child molestors, which indicates to me that he did something to at least those two. So I grew up with a mother who molested me, and abused me physically and emotionally. And I consider myself very lucky to be alive, as she enjoyed killing and hurting pets, which is said to be one of the first signs of a sociopathic killer.

So to me, just being alive is a miracle. All of the beauty of the world is a miracle. Finding kind and caring friends is a miracle. While the world can be a cold and horrible place -- true hell in some places in time and space -- there is so much love and beauty here, too. And that is a miracle.

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Our lives are the songs that sing the universe into existence.~David Zindell