Miracles

I am checking in at the Redmond airport and sharing with the attendant the nature of my Meniere’s Disease—just in case I experience an episode while in flight. She does not know how to enter it in the computer so she asks a succession of two other co-workers. The third person was able to access the appropriate screen. She asks about my symptoms and stares wide- eyed as I share. It appears her husband has the same symptoms but has never had a diagnosis. The doctor just dismissed it as simple vertigo. She writes down the name of the condition and is planning to do some research and consult with their physician. Since her husband is suffering with this ‘unknown’ vertigo, they now have a possible avenue to addressing the situation. She is grateful. 

Little miracles happen like this all the time but we often do not see them, blind to the subtlety. Miracles are mostly subtle. They arise like our breath and dissolve just as quickly and effortlessly. Actually, what we call miracles are ‘business as usual’ for our original unconditioned awareness. If we are not absorbed in our own dramas and assumptions, our eyes see auspicious moments as a dance of compassionate possibility. They appear and disappear—inspirational and elusive at the same time.

When our plane landed in Salt Lake City for a connecting flight I was met by a man holding up an iPad with my name on it. Apparently, the concern and kindness of someone at the airline suggested I might want a wheelchair. Since I was feeling okay, I declined, but the gentleman following me needed a wheelchair but had forgotten to arrange for it. So, another miracle—an auspicious arising. 

Life itself is an auspicious arising, offering us an opportunity to view compassion in action wherever and whenever we open our eyes. We just have to get over ourselves and lighten up. That ‘enlightening’ is our capacity to see the world of appearances without the filters of our perceptual habits. Unfortunately, we often describe miracles as something sacred or with divine influence—causing us to discount the possibility that everything is sacred or divine.

Maybe, right now, lift your eyes and see the miracle unfolding. Quickly, and without thinking—before it disappears.

Are you looking for me?
I am in the next seat.
My shoulder is against yours.
You will not find me in the stupas, not in Indian shrine rooms,
nor in synagogues, nor in cathedrals;
not in masses, nor kirtans,
not in legs winding around your own neck,
nor in eating nothing but vegetables.
When you really look for me, you will see me instantly —
you will find me in the tiniest house of time.
Student, tell me, what is God?
He is the breath inside the breath.     ~ Kabir

(Please don’t get hung up on the noun and pronoun.)