This Morning
by: Mary Oliver
This morning the redbirds' eggs
have hatched and already the chicks
are chirping for food. They don't
know where it's coming from, they
just keep shouting, "More! More!"
As to anything else, they haven't
had a single thought. Their eyes
haven't yet opened, they know nothing
about the sky that's waiting. Or
the thousands, the millions of trees.
They don't even know they have wings.
And just like that, like a simple
neighborhood event, a miracle is
taking place.
This is the first day of my vacation. I always take the first week of the new year off. I'm not teaching, and I'm not working at the library. Basically, I have eight or so days just to . . . be.
That doesn't happen very often in my life. Of course, I'm having lunch with some friends tomorrow. Possibly scheduling a game night with another friend. I may work on my Bigfoot manuscript. Take my dog for some nice, long walks. However, I'm not going to drive myself insane by cramming so much into these precious hours of downtime.
Here is what I have done so far today: drove my wife to work, made myself breakfast (eggs and cheese), watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower (because I could), got caught up on blogging, sent a text to one of my best friends because she was on my mind, and went outside to hunt for a miracle.
It has been a Mary Oliver kind of day.
Now, I'm sure that Mary would have gotten out of bed a lot earlier than I did this morning. And I'm sure she wouldn't have taken a nap in the afternoon. (As soon as I'm done typing this post, I plan on having some one-on-one time with my couch.) But I have really been aware of each passing moment, held them in my hand like pieces of polished beach glass.
Tonight, after I pick my wife up from work, I'm going to a local Italian restaurant for dinner with her and my son. (We have a gift certificate to use.) And that meal, particularly the garlic bread, will be a miracle.
The evening stretches out in front of me, a blank piece of paper. Since I'm writing my daily blog post now, I won't have to worry about that later. Maybe I'll read a book. Or watch a movie. Take another nap before I turn in for the night. Eat a piece of chocolate. Or just do absolutely nothing at all.
I think most people work hard every day to create miracles. At work and home and school. We want to make some kind of impact on the universe. Here's the thing: the universe doesn't need help in the miracle department. It does fine on it own.
It's our jobs to watch for those miracles. Recognize them. Point them out to others.
Saint Marty is now going to find a miracle on his sofa, perhaps with a pillow and blanket.
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