In response to the post Thought for the Day: These Small Hours, a song by Matchbox 20's Rob Thomas, reader Mary H. shares the name of another beautiful song by artist Sarah McLachlan. The song, Ordinary Miracle, is from the Charlotte's Web movie soundtrack and for Mary -- and me too -- it evokes an inspiring live-for-the-moment type of message.

Think about this:

It's not that usual when everything is beautiful
It's just another ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when its time to snow
You don't need to teach a seed to grow
It's just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn't it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It's just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling
And always make it home by spring
It's just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don't throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
Cause we are all a part
Of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

Its seems so exceptional
Things just work out after all
It's just another ordinary miracle today

The sun comes up and shines so bright
It disappears again at night
It's just another ordinary miracle today

It's just another ordinary miracle today

For those of you living for the moment, you are about to lose 60 whole minutes come Sunday when Daylight-saving time strikes once again.

This may throw you off a bit if you are one to maximize every second, minute, and hour you are afforded in this tenuous life. And while I can't offer you any secrets for recapturing this lost time, I can share some thoughts, compliments of professional organizer Linda Richards of Organize and More, on how you might compensate for Sunday's lost hour.

Think about this:

• Go to bed 15 minutes earlier and get up 15 minutes earlier starting a few days before the time change.
• Move any important meetings to later in the week so you body isn't as tired.
• Snack on healthy foods such as fruits and nuts to replenish energy.
• Shorten your to-do list to your top three to five priorities.
• Print out a copy of your calendar and appointments for March and make sure your computer has a patch to handle the earlier time change this year.
  

I never tire of cherishing the moment. Sometimes I get busy and distracted and caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, but I always come back to the simple appreciation of time. There's no stopping it -- time -- and there's no telling how my days will unfold as the seconds and minutes and hours tick by, so I try to live in the present with every breath I take.

Cancer taught me this lesson -- this realization that time is not a guarantee, this deep-down feeling that I must soak up every experience that faces me.

Each night when my husband and I check on our sleeping boys, we sigh with amazement and one of us religiously says something like, Wow, they are so great. We never want to lose sight of the joy these sometimes-challenging little people share with us. And so we watch them in their most peaceful moments, while emotion fills our heads and hearts.

My husband has lost sight of his father -- literally. He died eight years ago today and while John can no longer see the man who passed away suddenly, without warning, and at a much-too-young age, his memories are still vivid. It's the simple things he didn't let slip by that are fresh in his mind today.

John wrote this essay for his mom and two brothers and sent it to them today, in honor of his dad whose life he hopes will never escape him.

And then there were four

I think about him just about every day. Most often it's a song that reminds me of Dad, such as Cats in the Cradle, or even one of his favorite TV shows, Quantum Leap. I was shopping in Publix the other day while a great mix of music played -- a song from Three Degree's came on, When Will I See You Again, and I stood there with a thousand-mile stare on my face as I thought of Dad. I work in a building that looks right across the street from the last residence hall I lived in, Yulee Hall -- the last dorm from which Dad muscled all my belongings. I see that building every day.

The passing of time doesn't fade the memories I have of him, the distance between the last one just increases. Just about this time eight years ago, I laid across Dad's chest well after he took is last breath. That memory is forever burned into my mind along side the memory I have of walking past Kristin's room that fateful day many years ago. Before that day there were six of us, then there were five, and now there are four. Every force of nature cannot stop that number from reaching zero, so I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all that I love you and think about you every day. Although death may be the worst gift of life, the gift of our kids will keep our numbers growing. It's unfortunate he didn't get to meet any of our kids and they didn't get to meet him -- but in a way they do. There is no doubt I share some of his qualities and those (hopefully only the good ones) affect the way I parent, the way I work, and the way I love.

I miss you, Dad.

Love, JP

Valerie Monroe, beauty director for The Oprah Magazine, writes a monthly column -- Ask Val -- that appears on the pages of Oprah's feel-good publication. She responds to questions about make-up, skin care, hair care, and overall body care too.

In her February 2007 column, Val writes, "Many of you have written to tell me that you began to be less critical of your body when you appreciated the things it could do." As I read this, I had what Oprah would call an Aha! moment, a moment when something just clicks and makes sudden sense. Aha!, I thought, as I considered all the things my body can do, completely independent of how I look on the outside. So while I was jogging today -- my body can now easily run three miles -- I ran through all of my body's accomplishments, and I stored them in the files of my mind so I could later write them down.

Here are seven things my body can do. As you read them, consider your own body -- its strength, its power, its capacity for greatness -- and remind yourself of your wondrous self the next time you start to criticize the way you look.

• My body can partner in the creation of human life. It can carry babies and deliver them and love them and care for them and raise them. Not all bodies have this power. I am lucky.

• My body can climb an attic staircase, crawl into cramped and dark corners, pull large boxes out of wedged spaces, drag them back to the staircase, and walk backwards down the stairs with goods balancing on my head so that I can fulfill the wish my five-year-old child who wanted so badly in early November to assemble our Christmas tree and decorate our house for the holidays. "Let's wait until Daddy gets home," I told Joey when I found myself crammed into a tiny space in the attic, wrestling with a heavy box full of artificial tree parts. "You can do it, Mommy," Joey said. "You are strong." And so I fought my way through the frustrating feat because I was afraid of the lessons I would teach this little boy if I didn't. In the end, it was Joey who taught me the lesson. I can do it. I am strong.
  

• My body can endure and conquer a 5K run when it once could barely run around the block. With a little extra effort and push, I think my body can accomplish even more.

• My body, once weak and without definition, can lift increasingly heavy weight and can generate muscle tone. It can even do push-ups -- real push-ups. It takes dedication and practice and persistence and mental toughness too. But I see progress. I feel progress. And I want more.

• My body can help others. I can use my fingers to type words on a keyboard that will reach friends and family and people I don't even know. My words can inform and support and encourage and heal. I can use my hands and my semi-creative talents to create hand-made gifts, to cook and deliver very mediocre meals for friends in need, to massage my husband's sore back, to braid my niece's beautiful hair and paint her tiny nails. I can use my arms to hug my little boys with all my might. I can use my voice to communicate, my ears to listen, my senses to feel.
  

• My body can tolerate surgery and chemotherapy and radiation and horrible allergic reactions to antibiotics. My body was badly beaten by a treatment protocol intended to cure me of a disastrous disease. And somehow, in some way, it survived.
  

• My body killed cancer. With the aid of medical intervention and a hopeful attitude, my body overcame the worst and best thing that has ever happened to me. And if it could do nothing else, I would be truly happy for this one thing my body can do.
  

Little Layla Schilling is just two-and-a-half years old -- and for more than one year of her short life, she has been fighting a rare liver cancer that spread to her lungs. But a series of medical interventions has worked miracles -- and Layla now gets to leave the hospital and head for home, where a belated Christmas gift from Santa awaits her -- a trampoline.

When Layla's cancer was first discovered, doctors at Royal Children's Hospital in Australia immediately removed 80 percent of her liver to stop the tumor growth. Several months later, cancerous spots appeared again in her liver -- and in her lungs too.

Five months of intensive chemotherapy did its job -- and Layla's mom, Sara Wright, says her daughter is now doing well.

"The chemotherapy has successfully shrunk the tumors in her lung and what was left was removed by surgery," she said. "The tumor in her liver is under control, but the only way to be sure it doesn't come back is to have a transplant."

While a transplant is in Layla's future, she is focused right now on the moment. As every child should be.

I had a free massage the other day, compliments of a local massage workshop called Caring for Clients with Cancer.

This hands-on gift came to me by way of a woman who was once a scientist and is now a massage therapist. Concerned that cancer patients are rarely encouraged to cash in on the benefits of touch therapy, this woman merged her two disciplines so she could help patients heal in a holistic manner. And so her workshop was born. And I was invited to take part.

I received one completely soothing and invigorating massage. I also received one completely inspiring packet of quotes -- that I've already read over and over again -- related to recovery and healing. Each quote is so perfect in its message, and I wish I could share them all today. But time and space are limited at the moment, and I can only share a few.

So here are seven of my favorite quotes, free for the taking, a gift from me to you. Take a moment to read them, share them, savor them, and quietly reflect on the power of these simple words.

People who have been through illness's dark passage can occasionally give us a glimpse, not only of what it is like to become whole, but of what it is to be more fully human.
--Marc Ian Barasch
The Healing Path

Those who have suffered understand suffering and therefore extend their hand.
--Patti Smith

What matters is this: you can look at a scar and see hurt or you can look at a scar and see healing. Try to understand.
--Sheri Reynolds

I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and to share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigating pain. It is important to share how I know survival is survival and not just a walk through the rain.
--Audre Lorde

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.
--Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor

Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and has lost something.
--H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Patience is a hard discipline. It is not just waiting until something happens over which we have no control; the arrival of the bus, the end of the rain, the return of a friend, the resolution of a conflict. Patience is not waiting passively until someone else does something. Patience asks us to live the moment to the fullest, to be completely present to the moment, to taste the here and now, to be where we are. When we are impatient, we try to get away from where we are. We behave as if the real thing will happen tomorrow, later, and somewhere else. Let's be patient and trust that the treasure we look for is hidden in the ground on which we stand.
--Henry J.M. Nouwen

Journalist, commentator, and cancer patient Leroy Sievers -- the guy we've written about before, the guy who has covered many wars and witnessed countless deaths, the guy who is now observing his own death as cancer in his lungs and spine chip away at his life -- has realized that getting good news takes some getting used to.

Sievers got some good news recently. He learned that the new combination of chemotherapy drugs he's been receiving has shrunk the tumors in his lungs. And scans show the tumor on his spine is healing. It's taken him days to truly understand this concept -- this concept of hope that has miraculously delivered him more time. He didn't expect it.

Sievers fully expected that he would soon be dead. That's why he's been savoring the cold, crisp fall days -- because he was not certain he would ever see such a season. He was sure he would never host another Halloween party either -- a party he canceled this year due to his health. But now, as he takes in this new sensation of hope, he considers the possibility he may be around for another party. And he thinks he'll dress up as a tumor. Halloween is one time when good taste is never important, he says.

Sievers, who offers a weekly personal health update for NPR, available in print or in podcast format on his blog, plans to keep living in the moment. He doesn't want to overdo this hope thing. So right now, he is simply enjoying the colorful leaves -- and the season he calls one of his favorites.

It's day 15 in this Breast Cancer Awareness Month and the survivors spotlighted on this site are stacking up. Yet we've only just scratched the surface of breast cancer survivor stories. And by the end of October, we will have only featured a very small sample of survivors everywhere. There are countless others with their own powerful stories. It's sad there are so many stories shaped by breast cancer. It's empowering too -- because breast cancer survivors are a passionate bunch. They are passionate in their fights, passionate in their beliefs, passionate in their willingness to help others.

A passionate bunch of survivors can be found here on The Cancer Blog. They are all women, of various ages, with various backgrounds, defined by different experiences. They are also quite the same -- for they have all been touched by breast cancer. And their words of wisdom are strikingly similar, despite the contrast in characteristics that define these women and their very individual battles with breast cancer.

Here are seven survivor similarities worth spotlighting.

Kim Taylor is a 45-year-old single mother who lives in Suwannee County, Florida and is proud to have successfully raised one daughter -- a graduate of the University of Florida. Kim enjoys outdoor activities like camping as well as sewing, crafting, and carpentry projects. She is most at peace spending time with her family, working as a youth volunteer -- and raising awareness for breast cancer. It's a interest she acquired just two years ago, compliments of a personal encounter with the disease that has taught her to let the little things go, to appreciate every sunrise, to make every moment matter.

It can be hard to remember when it's time for check-ups and exams and screenings. Many come just once each year and with the swift passage of time, it's easy to forget our medical to-do lists. But missing an appointment -- or even delaying one -- can lead to missed and delayed diagnoses. So remembering these easy-to-forget chores is key. And perhaps reminders are the key to remembering.

The American Cancer Society offers a free mammogram reminder in the form of e-mail message sent each year to remind women to schedule their mammograms. It takes just a moment to register with an e-mail address and a preferred month and day of the year for this e-mail to arrive. To register for your yearly reminder, click here.

The College of American Pathologists offers a free reminder service for the following appointments -- blood donation, cholesterol screening, colon cancer screening, diabetes test, pap test, and mammogram. Click here to choose one or more of these options that also require just just an e-mail address and preferred month and date for delivery.

So forget that string around your finger -- reach for your computer keyboard right now. It takes just a few keystrokes to ensure prompt testing for the health issues that if detected early, can save our lives.

Numbness is wearing off, and I am beginning to feel twinges of pain surrounding the area where my port was once located. I can't see what was done to me today -- because the area is carefully bandaged -- but I know from what I feel that my skin has been cut and sewn back together. I feel the skin tightening, stretching, pulsing and while it's not terribly comfortable, it's pretty minor compared to the pain of so many other cancer procedures -- like my lumpectomy, my chemotherapy, my nausea, my neutropenia, my allergic reactions to various medications.

So I am fine, following my port removal that was predicted to last a few hours but somehow took most of the day. The actual procedure took just one hour, and the twilight drug that kept me in a peaceful funk allowed me to relax while the port that was tunneled into the tissue underneath my skin was precisely taken from my body. It was an uneventful experience -- except for a few tears that dripped from my eyes during the final moments before my surgery. I think it may have been the power of the moment -- the moment signaling the end of my active cancer journey. Or it may have been the power of support offered by my sister and my three-year-old son who accompanied me today. Or it may have been the power of the response I gave a nurse who had just seen my little guy and asked me if I planned to have more children. My response -- probably not, because of cancer -- seemed a little too final, a little too sad.

It may have been the combination of everything, all adding up over the past two years, that brought tears to my eyes today. But for now, the tears are gone. And the port is gone. For now, my cancer is gone.

In the moment of despair, the cliche time heals all wounds may seem anything but comforting. But that's because it's true. It takes time to heal and we are not in the right frame of mind just as something unfortunate has happened to accept -- or believe -- this advice that might come flowing from a well-wisher's lips. It's popular wisdom. It's commonly offered as comfort. It's easy to spit out. And while our wounds do not exactly fade with the passage of time, we are able to put a more positive spin on them. But it's tough to appreciate this until the unfortunate moment is long gone.

According to a recent study -- summarized in the September 2006 Ladies Home Journal magazine -- memories of distressing events, like the death of a loved one, don't go away but they do gradually get colored by more hopeful emotions. As time passes, we tend to remember strongly emotional experiences as positive even if they were once harrowing. "People are resilient," says one researcher. "We come to terms with our experiences in as positive a way as we can." So we may eventually see the death of a friend as something that made us stronger, something that reminds us to treasure our friendships. Our ability to find such meaning in the saddest of times helps transform it into a valuable experience -- and not just a sad one.

And this is exactly how I feel about having had cancer. No one could have convinced me at the time of my diagnosis that time would heal my wounds. I wasn't even sure how much time I had left on this planet. I was panic-stricken and frightened and tended to defeat conventional wisdom. But now that two years worth of time has passed me by and I am pretty certain I will continue surviving for a long time, I realize time is responsible for my positive outlook. Time did not completely heal my wounds -- I still have days when my wounds are raw -- but it surely bandaged them. And so I do believe time heals all wounds -- in a way -- and I am thankful for each moment of time I have to marvel at this truth.

Cancer has helped me slow down -- a little. I am more patient in the moment without racing to the next task I think is waiting for me. I can better manage my priorities and can offer the most important things the majority of my time. I am better at passing on opportunities that are low on my wish list. And I can typically say "no" if I don't have the time or energy to devote to a request. I know that I have to be healthy and happy and fulfilled in order to operate effectively and joyfully in this world. So I try to enjoy peaceful moments and put priorities first and not overextend myself and slow down. I'm not completely there -- yet. But I plan to keep practicing. And I'm going to try these seven strategies -- offered by a freelance writer, wife, mother of two, and reformed over-committer -- in an article I stumbled across in a local family magazine I picked up this week.

Right now -- at this very moment -- my two boys have turned our living room into a mess of blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. They put on their jammies and closed all the blinds and are pretending it's bedtime. But it's actually lunch time, so they have spread out paper plates and plastic silverware and bags of chips and boxes of crackers all over the floor -- on top of all their bedding. I delivered them their lunch platters and lemonade and there they sit, in the room next to me -- chattering away, stuffing their little mouths, full of life. And I am in awe -- of the simple joy that comes from a living room camp-out and picnic, of the beauty these children bring into my life. I am mostly in awe of the fact that no matter what cancer takes from me -- my hair, moments of health, my innocence -- it cannot ever take this very moment from me. And that makes today a happy day.

I have committed myself to only one breast cancer fitness event at the moment. I hope to one day branch out a bit and walk and run in different festivities, in different cities, for different purposes. But for now, Making Strides Against Breast Cancer -- sponsored by the American Cancer Society -- is my cause. Last year was my first time participating in Making Strides. I raised about $3,500 to help fund research, education, advocacy, and patient services -- and I walked the average five mile course that wound me through a quaint neighborhood in my city of Gainesville, Florida. This year, I plan to raise even more money and to run the same course. But not yet. The walk does not take place until October 14 -- which leaves me plenty of time to work on my fundraising goal and my running goal and plenty of time to help kick off this year's Making Strides.

I received my official Making Strides Kickoff invitation in the mail today -- an invitation to attend a dinner celebration where I can learn about the latest in breast cancer news from leaders in my medical community, listen to an inspirational personal story from a breast cancer survivor, and learn more about early breast cancer detection. So my calendar is marked for August 22 when I will attend this party-of-sorts that will jump start a major event in the major fight against breast cancer -- the disease that will one day touch the life of everyone is some way. Like it has already touched mine.