Tis the Reason for the Season

 Its been several days since I last wrote. With Cindy being back home after her 4 month absence I find myself with much less alone and quiet time from which I gain inspiration no write. Maybe its actually the lack of sexual frustration that is retarding my inspiration. Plumbing problems have also preoccupied my mind recently along with -40 degree temperatures.

We are quickly approaching the Winter solstice, "Tis the reason for the season." The sun goddess will soon win her first battle against the god of darkness forcing a 6-month retreat into the light. Most modern inhabitants of this planet hardly notice this annual event anymore, instead preferring to mark it only with religious myths and legends or in more recent times, with conspicuous consumption and spending. Perhaps this modern custom of remembering this celestial holiday is actually a throw-back to the original practice of feasting, gathering, an dancing around warm fires under star studded skies. 

Miracles

 Once again I am sitting in my living room watching the darkness fade into light. The everyday objects that surround me gradually glow back into visiblity and I find myself pondering them. There is the old steamer trunk currently used to store the grandchildren's toys. Has to ever served to transport an immigrants worldly possessions across stormy seas to the hopes of a new world? How many human hands touched it on its travels? Did a sweaty blacksmith toil or smokey coal fires to forge forge the brass corner pieces? Who and where were the miners ripping the metals from deep within the earth from which these reinforcing pieces smelted? How about the trees used to construct the box. Did they grow in the sweltering heat of some Amazon forest, or the dark of the African jungle, or more probably, just in the green of the new world. How in the world did these things ever find there way into my living room in Fairbanks Alaska? I have no answers to these questions. However, the probability of any of these molecules ending up beside me to store toys is almost infinitely small. 

I tend to define a miracle as something that has impossible odds of coming to be. By that definition everything that surrounds me is a miracle in its own right. The wooden rocking chair resting beside the steamer trunk; the tropical plants growing on my window sill; the complex cells organized together that I refer to as my wife. They all are miracles that I have come to take for granted. The probability of any of them existing at this point in time is almost non-esixtent yet the infinite sea of time has molded them to exist in this moment. There does not need to be purpose or willful creator of such things. These of simply constructs of the human brain, which is itself perhaps the greatest miracle formed by the waves on the endless ocean of time.