Miracles

The morning sun is bright on my cracked windshield. The temperature is a bit of summer perfection, the windows are down. As I turn onto the highway headed to teach a weekly yoga journey, my intention is twofold: be of service and watch for miracles. For good measure, I add the intention to get my damn windshield fixed.

I contemplate the definition of a miracle; a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by nature or scientific laws… considered to be the work of a divine agency. Miracles or the concept of miracles has been roaming my pondering space, visiting my meditations, and tickling my fancy as of late.

I glance down at my healthy feet, consider my functioning arms, feel the bump of my heart and know that I know miracles. The mountains that cradle my life day in and day out stand on either side of the highway as boastful miracles all around.

What I don’t often consider when I contemplate the miraculous is; what does not happen. The near-miss. The close call. The divine timing of nothing happening at all.

Lifting my chin, I let more fresh air wash my face, fill my nose. Living in a mountainous region is ripe with natural beauty, exploration from sunrise to sunset, adventures that boggle the mind and set the soul at ease. It also means the overlapping hem of man and beast. There is not a hike or run that goes by without spotting some form of wildlife large or slight hidden among the forests that surround my home. Rarely does a visit to the river show an empty sky. The eagle, osprey, and hawk display their prowess high above the treetops.

My daydreaming, my consideration of miracles is shaken as something catches the corner of my eye. A rock wall slopes sharply to the edge of the highway. A man on a motorcycle, clad in lime green gear, is enjoying a quiet ride in the oncoming lane. In a split second I think to myself; “Good call on the bright colours” and “God, I miss the feel of a perfect morning motorbike ride.”

Those thoughts are swiped away as I see what the man on his motorbike having a glorious morning ride does not.

Male elk generally weigh in at an average 700lbs, females a more dainty 500lbs. Gather five or six in a herd and the mass is unstoppable. I suck in my breath, grip the steering wheel and force my eyes to remain open, knowing I will need them to manoeuvre.

The previous flicker in the corner of my eye is fully formed as a majestic yet frantic bull elk skids down the steep bank, using all of his might to steer his ship of a body away from the highway. The herd collides behind, setting his attempt to abort the crossing right next to impossible.

With great imagination comes the ability to create scenarios in an instant that are best unseen. In my fertile mind, I play out what could happen. It turns my stomach.

As the man on the motorbike enjoying his morning ride passes me by our eyes meet. Maybe it is the terror on my face and maybe not, however, he turns and looks over his shoulder just in time to see the bull elk pass by the tail light of his motorcycle.

I and the other motorists stop on the road, allowing safe passage for the herd. I pry my shaking hands off the wheel as they cross one after the other.

The crying begins for one reason:

I am sensitive—to the welfare of beasts, to the welfare of people, and to the witnessing of miracles.

I am sensitive—to the Universe showing me evidence of what I am pondering, to the presence and exactitude of divine timing, and to miracles taking place in what does not happen as much as what does.

As I drive on, I wipe my eyes and send a wish out to the elk merging back into the forest and to the man enjoying the perfect morning ride, “Enjoy your life, my friend.”