“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.”

– Walt Whitman, on the death of Abraham Lincoln

I think of Whitman’s poem on the First Day Our Lilacs Start to Bloom every year.

That was this morning when I looked out to see the green lilac leaves framing the animals grazing. It was a beautiful and very uplifting way to begin the day.

When I woke up last night, I was thinking about miracles. It occurred to me that a miracle doesn’t have to be spectacular, like walking on water; it is often so mundane that we miss it. Lincoln was a miracle; I miss his courage, decency, and honesty. Sunrise is a daily miracle for me.

One of my spiritual guru authors wrote that the miracle is to walk on the earth and breathe in and out.

For me, the miracle is just being alive. I am still alive, and I am walking and photographing this beautiful world all around me.

My life is already a miracle because I exist. I sometimes feel that people want me to be more than I am. But my miracle is just what I am. That’s enough.

Now that I think of it, flowers are a miracle every time they bloom.

Fate at rest. I’ve noticed that when dogs sleep, it often looks like death. Perhaps this is why they are so accepting of death while humans hide from it and deny it. I hope I die as peacefully as Fate sleeps.

Zip might be a miracle sent by the spirits to enrich our lives and remind us of the power of animals to love and remind us of love. That is a miracle, for sure.

Friendship is a miracle; the tough dog Bud is always happy to let Zinnia, his pal, use him as a footrest.