It's all — let's use a very specific word here — miraculous. You, me, love, quarks, sex, chocolate, the speed of light — it's all miraculous, and it always has been.

Every moment there are a million miracles happening around you: a flower blossoming, a bird tweeting, a bee humming, a raindrop falling, a snowflake wafting along the clear evening air. There is magic everywhere. If you learn how to live it, life is nothing short of a daily miracle.

Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.

Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not melt in one's bath.

The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen.

You can believe nothing or everything is a miracle. I believe everything is a miracle.

She would consider each day a miracle - which indeed it is, when you consider the number of unexpected things that could happen in each second of our fragile existences.

A miracle is a beginning and an ending. 2It thus abolishes time. 3It is always an affirmation of rebirth, which seems to go back but really goes forward. 4It undoes the past in the present, and thus releases the future.

A miracle, my friend, is an event which creates faith.

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Don’t wait for miracles, your whole life is a miracle.

I see that the life of this place is always emerging beyond expectation or prediction or typicality, that it is unique, given to the world minute by minute, only once, never to be repeated. And this is when I see that this life is a miracle, absolutely worth having, absolutely worth saving. We are alive within mystery, by miracle.

(I know, it's a poem but oh well).
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love — or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds — or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down — or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best — mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans — or to the soiree — or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring — yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass — the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim — the rocks — the motion of the waves — the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?