I marvel a lot.
Perhaps that’s a blessed gifty holdover from childhood innocence, because I don’t feel a driving need to approximate even those human doings that make me marvel.
Long ago, I marveled over the wondrous rainbows that gasoline can make in a busy-bussy city puddle.
I marveled that one can see stained glass church windows reflected so clearly on the top cut stone of one’s finger ring.
I marveled that pockets full of earthworms were so soft and warm, and that ants tickle as they traverse a small arm and leg over and over.
I marveled that the shady wooded hills smelled so different from front and back and side yards. I would not have been startled by the appearance of fairies. I still wouldn’t. They’re as real as ever. Like sift-y sand.
I marveled at tap dancers and plate-jugglers and harmonica players; at those who take a string of yarn and some small metal poles and make hats and mittens of it all; at those who take air and cheeks and lips and make the combination into a happy tune when coming in from work, or when going out to work.
I marveled at purring. We always do.
I marveled at the strange symphony going on below my ear as I laid my head on my mother’s stomach while she read. I sat up and looked at her every few minutes, “You didn’t hear that??”
In latter years, I’ve marveled at how the song of a tiny wren smaller than half my hand can be so loud. Their lungs are tiny — how is this volume possible?
I asked a Kerry friend who is a school teacher, and he asked his students to get to the bottom of this. It turns out the littlest birds may make only the littlest of sounds, but that there is something in the human ear that amplifies these sounds.
For our joy, of course. For our shoring up. For our replenishment.
I marveled at granddaughter who painted her origami cranes. I marveled at sailors who sang to a whale. I marveled for weeks after reading May Sarton refer to her poetry as “her work.” Her job was poetry? But … oh my! Yes, I see it.
I marveled to read that Michelangelo was so conflicted. So human.
I marvel at stripes applied by God’s hand to the tiniest of chipmunks ending in a rusty rump to blend in with Spring’s odd wake-up colors. I marvel, too, at the full-length detailing of even one finest feather — bluejay, seagull, blackbird, pheasant, pigeon..
I marvel at how breath and holes in wood and a bag to hold extra breath can squeeze out a sound so beautiful it can rend a God-to-human veil from Top to bottom.
I marvel at how little live creations sit on sun-setting perimeter rocks and guardrail posts, just soaking in the warm quiet of the day. They have no idea that their eyes reflect that of which they have caught sight.
And dragonflies. The engineering, hydraulics and graceful delicate beauty of a dragonfly explains so much that one can never verbalize on the outside of the soul. Similarly to the wordlessness of the first felt flutter of a human foot within.
Indeed, I marvel that we grow humans like inside-orchids, and that babies grow even when they’re sleeping.. until one day, their precious little systems grow bigly enough to stink up enormous socks as they walk down the aisle toward new little socks..
I marvel at it all; the blue and salmon skies; the ripples and sparklings; the salt spray face-bath under rude gulls wheeling; the very fact of this world faithfully, constantly spinning and rotating; and the very fact of our faithful, constant replenishing, replenishing..
I marvel, thus, that any of us might deny it to another or deprive anyone of any of it. If we really think about it, it is never licitly ours to take away from this human leg of our journey; we can only licitly add to it.