Saturday, September 22, 2012

"Here There Be Tygers"

The Jesuits have argued for the inclusion of what I suppose I'd call subjective miracles in the Roman Catholic Church's process of canonization. The system currently only accepts medical miracles, which can be proven objectively (albeit with some difficulty). This change would allow the saint-makers to accept as evidence of someone's holiness other types of miracles, such as the saving of a failing marriage, the cure of an alcoholic, or having succeeded in something against all odds, provided, of course, one prayed for such a miracle to come about.

Life, of course, on the day to day, is full of little miracles. There have been times in my life when I forget this, and times when I wait to see the big miracles, to see the cure of the terminal disease, the Big Miracle.

You see, Gentle Reader, sometimes I get caught up in the ugly details of life. Deadlines, groceries, chores, and all the little things that seem like they always need to get done. But I forget, when I do this, that there is beauty in these little details. There is beauty in doing the groceries, to eat a nice meal with someone you love, say. Or in making the place you live in that much better, or a really well written novel. There is happiness in those details, if you look at them the right way.

There is beauty, of course in the big things, too. Adventure, romance. One can't get so caught in the details, good or bad, and miss that.

It is a small miracle, a subjective miracle, for me to be able to see those kinds of beauty again. It is a bigger miracle, although still subjective, that there are tigers in the world:

The Beautiful Animal

By the time I recalled that it is also
terrifying, we had gone too far into
the charmed woods to return. It was then

the beautiful animal appeared in our path:
ribs jutting, moon-fed eyes moving
from me to you and back. If we show

none of the fear, it may tire of waiting
for the triggering flight, it may ask only
to lie between us and sleep, fur warm

on our skin, breath sweet on our necks
as it dreams of slaughter, as we dream
alternately of feeding and taming it

and of being the first to run. The woods
close tight around us, lying nested here
like spoons in a drawer of knives, to see

who wakes first, and from which dream.

Miracles are like the beautiful beast here, which, because they too depend on a certain point of view, a certain outlook, to make them valuable. Details, and miracles, depend on who wakes first, from which dream.

Thank you for showing me the miracles again, Gentle Reader.

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