Last night, as I was about to head upstairs and get ready for bed, I glanced down and noticed a small scrap of paper close to the wall just below the first step that seemed to be suspended in air. It caught my eye. How unusual, I thought, for a scrap of paper to be placed like that, a few inches above the floor, as if inviting me to pick it up. I bent over to take a closer look. I could see some typewritten words, but couldn’t make them out (even in the aftermath of my cataract surgery) so I decided to snap a photo instead.
What are we to make of the various small miracles life sends our way? When a golden scarab knocks on cue at the windowpane, we're inclined to chalk it up to serendipity, kismet or synchronicity. Whatever word we use, the impulse is usually the same. What once might have been deemed providential we now denigrate as nothing more than a remarkable coincidence. It is simply the human mind's propensity to attach deeper meaning to such coincidences.
But the truth is, I am delighted and increasingly baffled by these little miracles. I can't shake the sense that some hand other than my own is at work, shaping life's story. The first step toward change is awareness. The next step is acceptance. The third step may be learning to recognize there are meanings and messages that have been written into the fabric of the universe, and not simply ascribed to it by the human mind.

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