That same night I was driving home from Happy Hour for Patty's farewell party and there was an enormous amount of lightning. It wasn't raining, the sky was grey, and the lightning bolts were huge. Every time lightning struck the entire sky lit up and you could see the outlines of the clouds but it was for such a small fraction of a second that I was driving with my eyes tilted towards the sky, waiting for the next moment.
I realized that maybe this was appreciating the miracles as they were happening. The fact that these white bolts in a grey sky were so large and magnificent in a way I would never really measure up to. It's astounding.
Here is the poem that made me think about all this, in case you're interested:
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
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?
What kinds of things do you consider to be miracles?