Good morning, Digital Neighbors! Blessed and Happy Sunday to all! Sundays are for gratitude, and for me that means giving thanks to the Giver of all Good Gifts. I strive to receive each day as a gift from God and believe that His subtle and humble movements will be known to me if I am patient, listening, and receptive. If I am willing to see, I will be surprised. If I am willing to listen beyond the noise, I may hear the whisper at the cave that tells me He is near. I hope to maintain Walt’s attitude, as espoused in this poem, and see each day—and all of life—as miraculous and as a sign of the Giver. Have a great day, dear neighbors!
Miracles
Walt Whitman 1819 – 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 forenoon,
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?
Oeschinen Lake, Kandersteg, Switzerland - Pascal Debrunner - Unsplash
