Friday, December 24, 2010

Miracle on 16th Street

Driving around York with Mom and Nora drinking hot chocolate and looking at Christmas lights, there is a row of houses to the left that could double as a landing strip at La Guardia and to the right are fields and  rows of trees black against the graying sky, and I can't take my eyes away from them.  There is something in the layers and the colors: field, trees, field, trees, sky--various shades of gray.  And when we drive past those other houses with the giant blown up Santas and polar bears, my eyes find single leaves hanging from the trees, filigree and lace silhouettes.

I was thinking a couple of weeks ago that miracles pervade everything in our lives, but because of their repetitive and stable nature, we stop seeing them.  Cuts heal.  Light shifts and gathers.  Water pools.  I don't know.  I guess that's one reason I always wanted to be a poet or a painter--to try to document the miracles like the kind I saw tonight--the silent ones that just happen if we notice them or not.  We change.  We grow.  We age.  Miraculous.  Language: miracle.  This:  miracle.  Love:  miracle.

God becoming one of us...

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