I clearly remember hearing that at some time or place in my high school education. “They were eating moldy rye bread.” As if that explained it all. And, well, it does for many.

The statement refers to our medieval ancestors who thought they were seeing visions and witnessing miracles but low and behold their perceptions were influenced by some sort of chemical that they were ingesting accidentally. The apparent culprit was a mold. Ah. And speaking of ingesting that idea stuck in my craw and I remember it after all these years.

What are you getting at Felipé? Yea, it seems to me that yes if you dig hard enough one can come up with a scientific explanation for just about everything if not everything altogether. Existing side by side are two threads or two worlds really, a view that allows for the supernatural and one that strictly doesn’t.

I think that this is a clue to unlocking Danna’s statement that “miracles are a choice”. To see miracles we have to believe that they are possible. We have to be tuned to their wavelength. And sure that all looks like a bunch of woo woo garbage from a certain viewpoint. At a certain point though some of us are asked to recognize an intelligence in the randomness of it all. Can we accomplish that?

Can we hold onto the usefulness of science and acknowledge spiritual influence in our lives? Can we be big enough to bridge that gap for ourselves. And can we welcome miracles into our lives at the same time that we believe our doctor’s orders.

OK, I just dozed off and “accidentally” fat fingered the following into existence on this post. Was that random or meant to be? You make the call?

THE RETURN, by Geneen Marie Haugen

Some day, if you are lucky,
you’ll return from a thunderous journey
trailing snake scales, wing fragments
and the musk of Earth and moon.

Eyes will examine you for signs
of damage, or change
and you, too, will wonder
if your skin shows traces

of fur, or leaves,
if thrushes have built a nest
of your hair, if Andromeda
burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions
from those who barely inhabit
their own fleeting lives, who barely taste
their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless,
if your toes have not grown claws,
if your obedient voice has not
become a wild cry, a howl,

you will reassure them. We warned you,
they might declare, there is nothing else,
no point, no meaning, no mystery at all,
just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute,
afraid you’ve returned without sweet
elixir for unspeakable thirst, without
a fluent dance or holy language

to teach them, without a compass
bearing to a forgotten border where
no one crosses without weeping
for the terrible beauty of galaxies

and granite and bone. They tremble,
hoping your lips hold a secret,
that the song your body now sings
will redeem them, yet they fear

your secret is dangerous, shattering,
and once it flies from your astonished
mouth, they–like you–must disintegrate
before unfolding tremulous wings.

Fat fingered loves, Felipé.