A funy thing is happening now that I post to my blog every day. I’m enjoying the narrow-yet-flexible parameters of mindfulness as an umbrella topic, but as I go about my day more and more subjects seem to throw themselves at me. As these fun or artsy bits and pieces grab my attention, I find myself wanting to share them with you. Typically, I’d upload these songs or pictures or poems as a Daily Dose, but now I feel stymied. I Dose every day already! I don’t want to confuse subjects and projects and titles in this poor, fledging forum, and the compulsive perfectionist in me demands aesthetic, thematic, harmonic, symmetric consistency
But luckily for you, I’ve championed over my crazy and I’ve decided that I’m not going to withhold slices of brilliance from my dear readership simply because certain tags overlap. So as I resolve my titular conflicts, please take these posts for what they are: my best attempt to share with you the lovelier things in life.
Recently, I signed up for Poem-A-Day from the American Academy of Poets (you should too!).
I love this today’s poem by Walt Whitman and find it especially relevant to my mini-rant yesterday. Like me, Whitman seemed to believe that ‘our hearts crave more than bliss’, and with this work he celebrated the everyday for the miracle that it is.
by 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?