Happy Sunday, Coffee Lovers.
It is a miraculous day in western Washington. It is a small miracle, given to us by the lucky providence of clouds and that mysterious triple point at which the laws of chemistry tell us that vapor can become rain or snow or further air. Yes, the ground here is white.
What an inconsequential thing to call a miracle. It is just, you say, glorified ice. And that may be true, certainly. But the giggles of children and their rosy cheeks seem far more significant to me than a physical state of water, which - itself - is quite surprising. Life is the little things. Life is miraculous.
By that logic, everything is blessed.
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.
--Walt Whitman, "Miracles"
Join me for a cup.