Miraculous

Another favorite poem, this one by Walt Whitman.

Miracles

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 my mother,
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 sun-down--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 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;
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?


I consider this poem a sort of love song to the world - to "every hour of the light and dark;" to youth and age, to endings and beginnings, to the lowly and to the lofty abstract. I have nothing new to say on this topic; I'll just repeat the idea that miracles are large and small, numerous and marvelous. Even the week or so I've spent on my gap year proper has reinforced this. I have a new appreciation for my hometown. I have time, now, to wander Marshall Street in search of the perfect Syracuse sweatshirt; to spin racks of postcards to find the perfect ones to send to friends in college; to drive with music so loud I can hear nothing else but my own heartbeat. I'm no longer a high school student or newspaper editor or Model UN delegate; I'm not a Syracuse (University) student now, nor a Yalie yet. I am, however, an appreciator of miracles: the brilliance of iced coffee on a sweltering day; the clean white of my MacBook; the tone of my cell phone when I receive a text; the way Felix swats at Casper's tail when they wrestle, the vibrant explosion of colors on the pillowcase I tie-dyed this spring; the pictures Scotch-taped to my walls; the poster my aunt sent me; the awkward street names my (British-speaking) GPS reads to me. Maybe these miracles are, in Whitman's words, "unspeakable" - or maybe they're worth mentioning, in late-night wandering words.