The most hum-drum, barely-mentioned miracle is this moment allowed.
We neither wallow in times past nor scheme wishful futures, but stoop low towards our now, the rough wood of our present experience.
In miracle mode, not much used, we allow its touch; it’s everything there is, this elusive slice of divine.
Our past bread is stale, our future bread, unbaked. They haven’t even ordered the flour.
Only here, in this blink of an eye, is fresh bread, we’ll not throw it away as quite without taste.
And so it was in the first garden. They were there, Eve and Adam, with no grievance to chew on or sour comparison to note.
They were there, instead of somewhere else.
And so it was in our first and early selves. We were here, not separating via judgment or dancing the fearful twist.
We were here, not somewhere else.
The most routine miracle is this unannounced now, sometimes rude, greeted with kind eyes and hospitable gaze.
The high altar of reality; we best take off our shoes.
