We search for the extraordinary, yet it’s whispering to us in the quiet curve of the moon, the buzz of bees, and the warmth of love beside us.
As for me, I know 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 the trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love,
Or sleep in bed at night with any one I love,
Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon…
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…
What stranger miracles are there?
Reflection:
Walt Whitman reminds us that miracles aren’t rare—they are reality, wrapped in simplicity. We don’t need to scale mountains or perform feats of grandeur to witness something divine. The miracle is in the mundane: the rhythm of a heartbeat, the hush of dusk, the presence of someone we love. Life, in its truest form, is a succession of miracles waiting to be noticed. Pause. Look. That glimmer in someone’s eyes? Miracle. The cool touch of ocean water on your toes? Miracle. We miss them not because they’re absent, but because we’ve forgotten how to see. Open your senses to wonder. The world hasn’t stopped dazzling—we’ve just stopped noticing.