JOURNAL: June 2, 2006

Yesterday one of the lower school teachers passed me in the hall and asked if I would like to come and see a moth that her students had been studying. To be honest, it was the last thing I wanted to do at that point. I felt like I had at least a dozen responsibilities I should be attending to, each of them far more important than a little moth. I’m sure my facial expression indicated something less than enthusiasm when I replied, “Sure”. She led me outside to a shady spot beside the library, and there, clinging to the back leg of a bench, was an astonishing creature. (See picture, above). In all my many years, I have never seen anything like it. It was a moth all right, but it was probably six times larger than any moth I had ever seen – at least four inches long, and probably eight if it unfolded its wings. It was resting peaceably on the side of the bench, a miracle in the midst of what I thought was just another busy, humdrum day. After studying it for a few moments, I thanked my colleague and walked back to my classroom, wondering how many miracles I miss each day. As I sat in my room (I had a free period) and looked out at the blossoming garden, I realized that no day is just another busy, humdrum day. It came to me, once again, that all of reality – every moment and millisecond – is an utter miracle, a totally new manifestation of the mystery called “life”. I am surrounded at all times by miracles. A few minutes later, when my students walked in for English class, I saw them in a slightly different way than I’m accustomed to. They seemed fresher, more sparkling, more full of life than usual. At the risk of sounding maudlin, there seemed almost to be a light shining around each of them, as though they were all brand-spanking new that moment. We proceeded to have an especially wonderful class, while outside, birds softly whistled in the trees.