Outside I can hear jangly music—it pulls me away from what I’m reading (and I love what I’m reading) because I almost but can’t quite pull a melody out of what I hear. Then I focus on it and realize—it's the sound of an electric saw or sander. The pitches move across the sounds of cars and through walls and windows and into my room in a way that changes them into something more than just mechanical.
I find myself wondering—is it really just mechanical? Somebody close by is making something, or fixing something, or perfecting something. And I heard music for a moment.
* * *
I have looked at sunlight glittering on a lake many times and seen diamonds.
As a child I convinced myself that the dust motes I saw floating in beams of sunlight were fairies. So friendly of them, to let themselves be seen. Even now when I see a stream of light glinting with dust, I can feel the magic, just remembering.
And this weekend when green grass suddenly carpeted my part of the world—not ordinary green, but bright and deep, a color that shocks a little after so much white and brown and grey—I took that as proof not only that spring is coming, but that maybe I can hope for other good things as well.
* * *
It’s something I love—when one thing becomes another.
And those edges where things meet and combine—that is a favorite place of mine.
An idea crystallizes, a mind expands, a story or picture or melody works itself into a heart and then outward again into a life—these are quiet miracles, but powerful.
I hope you witness one of these miracles today. And if you are so moved, I’d love it if you shared it with me.