Aim for the simple hidden acts of love which keep time ticking like tiny golden gears in the pocket-watch of the stars. Reach for the ordinary goodness that rarely makes the news but forms the loamy ground on which we walk. Paths our ancestors wore in the living of their days now yield to our imprint, gently propelling us out of the gravity of singularity to leap beyond ourselves and see that I am because they were and we are. Take the unassuming nondescript scrap tossed by the wind across the parking lot holding the list written in your hand bread, eggs, fruit, mustard milk and the essential worker driving the bus, behind the counter, leaning over the patient. Care little for pithy memes and what is trending now or the preening of curated selves in your reflection on the screens. It is you in that old ratty sweater rising up to lean down and put on your shoes, pouring milk on your cereal praying for your children you whom I am trusting in and living for. The woman in the red hat waiting at the corner for the light to change waves back when I wave. For a moment, an eternity, the struck flame of connection crackles between us tugs us from our separate cells, uniting to say we are one here on this corner and indeed, we are made of miracles. Every day communion is served on a corner near you eucharist pours from heaven runs down the street children jump in the puddles - maybe you do too.
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