Nothing else but miracles

by chuckofish

The day after

I had a busy day at work on Monday–four Zoom meetings! So I don’t have a whole lot to share today. Meanwhile the grass is getting greener and the leaf blowers and lawn mowers are back with a vengeance.

Yesterday was Nebraska Day and this article was very interesting about classic movie stars who were born in Nebraska. It is a very impressive list–especially compared to Missouri. But, hey, we have Scott Bakula.

This article makes some good points. “Remote, virtual, disembodied fellowship simply isn’t enough.” We are all getting too comfortable with not seeing people.

We’ll “tip our hats an’ raise our glass of cold, cold beer” to the late, great Merle Haggard (1937–2016) on his the birthday today. (April 6 is also the day he died.) And I like this rendition of one of my favorites, Mama Tried, by Reina del Cid and Toni Lindgren:

When the California State University, Bakersfield, awarded Haggard the honorary degree of Doctor of Fine Arts in 2013, Haggard stepped to the podium and said, “Thank you. It’s nice to be noticed.” Classic Hag.

So enjoy your Tuesday and channel some positive Walt Whitman attitude.

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 table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer 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;
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 cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

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