MIRACLES
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| "There Are No Minor Miracles" oil, by Carol Keene |
“Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know nothing else but miracles . . .
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a
miracle.”
--
Walt Whitman, “Miracles”
There
are thousands of things I’ve never seen –stars over Asia, rivers in a rain
forest, the sun setting on icy cliffs. I could prepare a plentiful list of sounds
I’ll never hear, places of splendor I’ll never see. I could spend a dozen days just
counting the marvels I’ve missed.
On
the other hand, I could, instead, spend those dozen days listing the little and
large spectacles I’ve been lucky enough to witness. In fact, it would take me
dozens of days, months maybe, to
review the astonishing events that have flowed through my life day after day.
Have they all been grand and glorious, like mountain sunrises? Nope, but they’ve
all been miracles, from the dust that sits beside me on my desk in appealing
patterns, to the way wind whips tree branches around on a fall day, to the
80-year-old lady with squinting eyes who lost two husbands but is doing
Scottish dancing several days a week, to the two leaves that just fluttered
past the window where I’m typing these words with my old but incredibly lively
fingers.
