Find a miracle today
When it comes to being inspired, you can walk through the world in only a couple of ways; either be impressed or bored. You can pay attention to all that is amazing or decide you have better things to do with your mental capacity. Maybe you have something to worry and fret over. Perhaps you are nursing a grudge or taking offense over someone's post. Or maybe you're simply too busy.
Someone recently introduced me to the Walt Whitman poem below and I actually, audibly said, "YES!"
I want to catch every single miracle in my path and these lines remind me to do just that.
I hope you find them equally inspiring. Read slowly and enjoy the words.
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 the table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of an August 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;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass,
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 inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
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?
- Walt Whitman