It was late afternoon, probably sometime in November, and I was reading a book. The sun had reached the point in its descent where if I had just then started reading I might have turned on the lamp, but I could still read for a little while longer by the natural light coming in the window.

As I turned the page, my pupils began to expand in adjustment to the gradual dimming of the room. They must have overcompensated, though, because they began to contract, and then expanded again, as though they were trying to find their balance but kept falling forward or backward. After about the third round of this I finally noticed what was going on.

For a good two minutes I watched—is that even the right word?—as my pupils wavered back and forth indecisively. It was a miracle. It occurred to me that my pupils’ muscles tighten and relax thousands of times in a day, but I only ever notice it when someone points a flashlight in my eyes.

My sense of wonder withers away when all of my experiences fit inside the constructs of what I’m used to. At four months old I wondered that I could move my hand in front of my face, and at six years old I wondered that I could catch a fish from a pond with a worm on a hook. These are each legitimate miracles, but they’ve become ordinary to me.

It’s only when I become aware of these constructs that I can again experience wonder at the common things of life. In these moments I realize, with a clarity that comes so rarely and leaves so soon, that life is full of miracles and that all the ordinariness comes from me. How much of it do I miss?