Thursday, April 7, 2016

April 7: Speckles, Newness in the World, Happiness

Anything can happen; any pattern of speckles may appear in a world ceaselessly bawling with newness.  I see red blood stream in shimmering dots inside a goldfish's tail; I see the stout, extensible lip of a dragonfly nymph that can pierce and clasp a goldfish; and I see the clotted snarls of bright algae that snare and starve the nymph.  I see engorged, motionless ants regurgitate pap to a colony of pawing workers, and I see sharks limned in light twist in a raised and emerald wave.

Yes, Dillard is pointing out the newness of the world.  The possibilities that exist in goldfish and dragonfly and ant and shark.  As she says, anything can happen.  Blood moons.  August snowstorms.  Double rainbows.  Each day brings the possibility of the miraculous.

I am writing about miracles again.  It is almost 11 p.m., and the snow has started falling.  By tomorrow morning, there is supposed to be a fresh seven inches on the ground.  That means that I will be rising at around 4:30 in the morning to shovel.  If things play out the way I expect, my children will not be going to school tomorrow.

Across the Upper Peninsula, girls and boys are going to bed tonight filled with hope.  On the news tonight, the entire map was a blob of purple weather advisories . . . 


Yes, I started this post on Tuesday night.  Since that time, my kids have had two snow days.  No school.  Being cooped up in the house.  My son nearly killed my daughter today.  Twice.  They need to get back to school.  However, there is yet another bout of cold and snow descending upon us.  Another nine inches by Saturday morning.  I am literally running out of places to push the snow.

I am not a happy Saint Marty tonight.  Since Monday, I have been rising at 4:30 a.m. to shovel.  This morning, there was a three-foot wall of snow to move.  It took almost two hours.  I don't think my kids are going to get a miracle tomorrow morning.

There will be school.  There will be work.  And there will be snow.  A lot of it.

And Saint Marty will shovel.  A lot.

Saint Marty needs a little happiness . . .

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