miracles on a monday

Joan in the early 1970s.


Walt Whitman1819 - 1892

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

It's easy to overlook miracles when we're caught up in the every day chaos of life. Our pastor shared this poem by Walt Whitman in church on Sunday, and it resonated with me. Whitman was right -- Miracles happen every single moment of every single day. How awesome is that?

On a personal note, Porter (our black lab) and I are both having surgery this week. If you don't mind saying a prayer for each of us (and for Jonathan, our caregiver), I would be very grateful. It's going to be a long week, and we could use all the positive energy we can get!