Back When Miracles Happened
Dec 26 2024
She’d never seen the Northern Lights.
Never seen snow.
And an ice-covered lake
struck her as Biblical;
like walking on water
back when miracles happened
thousands of years ago.
Because they don’t anymore.
While the past had seers, prophets, and lesser gods,
water into wine
and otherworldly signs,
we have science
and mere pretenders.
Where have the magic, mystery, and reverence gone?
Is nothing these days
ineffable
and unexplained?
She was startled by the sounds,
the way a frozen lake
creaks, cracks, and groans.
Entranced by the clarity
you sometimes see
if rarely;
a windblown spot
where some alchemy
of temperature, rate, and calm
resulted in airless ice,
a clear window
into the cold black water
resting heavily
a few inches below.
And she found in the stillness
on a windless day like this
a silent meditation;
the lake locked in,
the land and water seamless.
An everyday miracle
I confess I took for granted.
Or if “miraculous” seems a little much
— too supernatural
for the non-believers
and skeptics like me —
then marvellous
wondrous
numinous.
We returned that night
to take in the sky,
curtains of light
that shimmered and danced
before my jaded eyes
like a wake-up call.
I was bewitched by the whimsy,
awed by the indifference
to our little lives
down here on earth.
I know the science
— or close enough
to say I kind of know —
but chose instead to follow her;
looking up
with childlike delight
as the spectacle washed over us.
No questioning, or answering,
no explanation demanded.
Just a feeling
of wonder and thanks.
I could also make the opposite argument: that science illuminates in a way that rather than diminishing our wonder, enhances it. I think of evolution. Which is more marvellous: a wave of the hand of some supernatural entity depositing us holus bolus here on earth; or millions years of trial and error, of reproduction and survival, somehow honing us into the sensing and sentient big-brained creatures we are, conjuring the intricate web of life in all its diversity, interdependence, and mind-boggling abilities? And all this despite the radical climatic and tectonic changes the earth has undergone over geological time.
Ultimately, though, the poem is about being receptive and open rather than analytical and reductive. And also about recapturing the child-like sense of wonder we almost all lose as grown-ups. About noticing, close observation, and trying to see as if for the first time.
The actual seed of the poem was reading about the disappearance of outdoor ice — pond hockey and backyard rinks — due to climate change. Concurrently, I saw a spectacular photograph of the Northern Lights (Fred Lum; the Globe and Mail). Which is all I needed to start riffing: a frozen lake, and the Aurora Borealis. Oddly, photographs capture a greater range of colour than the human eye: the aurora is always more spectacular like this (below) than actually viewing it.
I couldn’t resist the aside or close enough / to say I kind of know because it’s true: I have a vague idea about the solar wind, ionized particles, and earth’s magnetic field, but can’t really put it all together in a rigorous way. This is called “the illusion of explanatory depth”, and applies surprisingly often. For example, do you really know how a toilet works or a pencil is made? Or do you just think you do?
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