We forget about the magic in this world, the blooming flowers,
As we tread upon dirt that once was stars…
Our very eyes are miracles—never mind the things we see:
Burials, lightning on the beach, the age of trees,
the thought that comes to me from you, the lies in the newspaper, careful work, prayer, good cooking, songs discerned at a distance, made by nature or man….
What is not a miracle? Tell me something that is not a miracle and I will say, no, you are tired—take a break.
But you are right: I did not mention our meanness and broken hearts, nor the stagnant eddies outside the river’s flow in which a soul can waste and wallow, or take a rest.
I will tell you my own story: how badly I began, how naivety led to despair, how stoically my futility begat its slow determination. (Do you want to hear about tediousness, or following the germ of faith, or tearing off my skin of bitterness leaving only this smoldering, patient resolve?)
Cry out…and I did, cried and prayed and shouted out that anger until I became,,,,myself—much sooner than I expected—the work of only decades, not lifetimes, much sooner than I expected —and still not finished, only better-equipped.