Miracles

Laura Thomas

Miracles


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?


Walt Whitman

 

Whitman is right. Miracles are common as dirt. Everywhere we look – can we explain the things we see, the normal, everyday things – a glass of water! Think of the mysteries in a glass of water alone – what is the water made of ? How has it come to be in the glass? Where has it been? And the glass – we may think we know what it's made of, but how was glass first discovered? Who was it that saw what could be done with it? One question only leads to another. One fantastic thing only leads to another. And we walk through our homes, through our streets, through forests, along beaches and streams – surrounded, innundated, swirled within an expanding crescendo of amazement. 

It's quite true, there is nothing I know that is not a miracle.

 

The World Below the Brine

Actinologia Britannica - Philip Henry Gosse

The World Below the Brine

The world below the brine,

Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,

Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf,

Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light through the water,

Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the aliment of the swimmers,

Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom,

The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes,

The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray,

Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths, breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,

The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us who walk this sphere,

The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.

Walt Whitman 

“Forests at the bottom of the sea…” Whitman takes us to that mysterious underwater world in an instant. I read this, and I’m right there. He has tremendous skill in conveying variety and expanse, a sense of wonder for the world he lives in, and the worlds that border on it. And he is struck by the similarities between these worlds – forests, gardens, wars, tribes – all things we recognize and relate to. I appreciate this sense of similitude in Whitman. He is interested both in the alienness of things and in their connection to each other. It seems to me that if you bring both those qualities together, you have a better grasp of what it means to be alive, to be a creature amongst other creatures, to live in a world within worlds.