I love this poem from Walt Whitman because of the way it challenges us to look at things we may consider to be perfectly ordinary and see them in a totally different way. Things we may take for granted. Things our eyes might skim over or ignore as not special.
Sometimes our horizons are just too narrow. Or we are too preoccupied by everything going on around us. But these moments, these little miracles that feed the soul, encourage the spirit and often help us to have the strength to deal with our daily battles large and small. Whitman doesn’t mention God’s presence but I think God is there in all of the things he names and more. We just need to remember to see, and remind each other that there really is nothing “ordinary” about an ordinary day. They are each a gift. How different would the world be if we all embraced and cherished each day, those we share it with, and how we spend it?
Something to ponder as we head into summer and the lazy, hazy days that invite reflection and relaxation.
Miracles - Walt Whitman
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?