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Just getting out of the bed is an early miracle—some days more miraculous than others. Thank goodness for the discipline of routine. Without it, the pull of gravity (pulling downward toward the grave?), both actual and metaphorical—might be irresistible. Yes, I can imagine that without routine, the pull to pillow could conquer the otherwise sensible self and I might wrap myself in the shroud of my sheet for the rest of the day.
Or until hunger (blessed hunger) would lure me out of the bed and straight to the stove.
Early and late we are besieged—flooded, overwhelmed—by miracles of all degrees: big ones, small ones, some as big as your 'ead—no, no, that's not miracles; that's a loverly bunch of coconuts, and they have no place in this piece of writing, which seems to range from dismal to despondent (some range!) with a note or two of hope thrown in to rally the troops.
The miracle actually seems to be that we have not all annihilated each other by now. Though not for lack of trying.
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