We are all beggars, dependent upon earth and sky and the hearts of men to open each day and feed us; to capture us in a net of miracles; to shed their light, stars unto stars.
The earth stands quietly like a young girl in the first bloom of woman loveliness, gently tugging at the arms of our eyes, not saying words, but being beauty. For our amazement she each year renews herself, shows us our own continuance, reminds us of the miracles in the soil, toiling earthworms, the wheat growing green, all around us following God’s plan with the ease and grace of a cloud’s birth. How can a man forge a bayonet if he once sees the we are all— trees and grass and people and oceans— on a single tumbling journey through the stars.
Each night God paints the sky and somewhere in the world men are lying to each other. Each morning God brings the dawn from His cupboard and gives us another chance at reverence… Surely there is no clearer message as the sky takes fire in the east and burns the velvet into blue than that message Thou art reborn
Look at the miracles of hands as you speak with others. Notice the calmness of the rocks at the ocean’s edge, the gills of water breathing, breathing. All around and through and beyond is the touch of the Hand. The Eye sees out from everything. The amazement of merely being surrounds us and yet we forget, and again we forget