|"Ice Machine", watercolor, by Kay Smith|
“Hear ye not the hum of mighty workings?”
-- from a poem by John Keats, “Addressed to Haydon”
This line from Keats came to me this morning as I listened to the hum of the furnace in the basement, and it brought to mind all the “mighty workings”, all the humming and whirring and bustling and pulsating that’s constantly occurring across the world as I carry on with my life. There are, of course, the miraculous machineries of my own body – my heart that’s held a steady rhythm for around 26,000 days now, my lungs that lift and fall like the most steadfast of engines, my cells that refresh and restore themselves second by second – but that’s just the start of the list of works of this workshop we call our world. While I’m sitting in silence, sipping coffee and typing, trees by the billions are restructuring themselves, rolling oceans are functioning with perfection, prairies in the west are performing with precision, and the sky above our house is rotating its winds and spinning its stars with efficiency and precision. “Mighty workings” indeed – and in the midst of these sits a 71-year-old guy whose gears and mechanisms are still making miracles, still supervising his constantly prosperous life.