Wednesday morning as I drove west on Highway 26, the moon hung low and full over the horizon, a great pale disk dominating the gray-blue sky.
Yesterday morning when I woke up in the dark, I looked out my window and saw her sailing high, so bright I had to squint to look at her.
Both moments were breathtaking and awe-inspiring. They reminded me that there is magic in the quotidian. That the sun and the moon cross the sky on a daily basis is miraculous. The slow unfurling of leaves in spring, the slow decay of fruits in autumn, are miraculous. Breathing, cells regenerating, sweating and blinking and swallowing, are miraculous.
And the more we understand how it all works through science, the more amazing and miraculous it is.
Getting in the habit of a daily walk was really hard. But after being persistent for several weeks, I’m remembering the rewards. I’m remembering how getting into the woods or fields every day gives me an opportunity to observe the gradual shifting of life. Observing the everyday slows it all down for me–it won’t all the sudden be fall one day, because I’ll have been out there among the trees watching them shift, feeling the air change, seeing the days grow shorter a tiny bit at a time.
I’ve tended to think about Pagan observances in terms of the holy days–New and Full Moon, the Sabbats. And there’s a lot of value in coming together to take note of our place on the wheel, to give thanks and strengthen community ties. I’d like more of that in my practice, actually.
No less valuable is the daily, personal practice of loving this morning’s sunrise, this individual blossom, this slant of light through the canopy of leaves, this spiderweb hung with dew. They are common things, they are daily happenings, and they are still magical.
This, for me, is how reverence for the earth is built–one day, one walk, one quotidian miracle at a time.