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Today, a plane crashed in India.

Over 240 lives vanished in an instant—except one.

One man, one seat: 11A, next to the window.

He lived.

And no, I don’t want to debate the probabilities, the mechanics, the science, the fate.

I don’t care to speculate whether he was lucky, shielded by physics, or caught in some divine lottery.

Because for me, this—his survival—is something else entirely.

It is a miracle.

But not only this miracle.

Because I’ve come to see that miracles don’t always arrive with thunder and light.

Sometimes, they come disguised as breath.

As a quiet moment that didn’t have to happen but did.

Some people say: “Miracle? What’s that? Everything has an explanation.”

And I have no problem with them.

Let them seek logic and evidence.

But me? I live inside the miracle.

I feel it.

And I do not need it explained.

Just look around:

Breathing, aging, grieving, loving.

The quiet transformation of cells.

The invisible tides of thought.

The fact that we are suspended in a cosmos so vast it has no edge,

and yet here I am—writing these words,

and you—receiving them.

We are walking amongst the dead.

Not in fear.

Not in sadness.

But in reverence.

Because being alive in this strange, vast, fragile universe—

even just for a breath,

even just for today—

is a miracle.

And to be clear,

I have no problem with death.

It doesn’t frighten me.

It’s not a shadow I run from.

It’s just part of this vast choreography—

like the moon rising,

like leaves falling,

like the pause between two notes in a song.

But what stuns me still—what fills me with silence and wonder—

is that I get to exist at all.

To think, to feel, to create.

To love and to be loved.

To change, to break, to mend.

To watch light stretch across a wall in the afternoon.

To be here, in this moment, without any guarantee of another.

I do not bow my head to life because I fear death—

I don’t.

I bow to presence itself.

To the mystery that anything is.

That I am.

That you are.

That this strange beauty keeps unfolding, quietly,

without asking for understanding—

only for attention.

That, to me,

is the miracle.