The Rough Magic

It is a quiet morning in the Baggaraggs. Albert and I have had our morning stroll out back. I found our neighbor's cat inside the Pool Cage, he had fallen through the screening at the top, as it is old and needs repair. Poor thing, he was meowing up a storm when I came out the back sliders, and came right over to me even though I had the dog.
It is a balmy 73 degrees here and the Light is perfect and the Birds are composing their melodies for the neighborhood.
The Seasons are changing, not that the seasons in the Baggaraggs are so dramatic. But the Golden Rain tree has begun to leaf, and the amaryllis is up and trumpeting. It has been a mild winter, and the browns will soon turn to green, the growing things will wake.
These mornings I struggle to find the words that define the magic that comes with ordinary living. I think of the Morning Prayer and the lighting of the candle, asking for the Presence of the Divine to be in my Home, and in Me. I think of the days this winter when I made a fire, and the very magic of the kindling. I think of the fusion of the tastes that made the soup, and the tending of it with a kind of Wonder, and the transition of the Flour into Bread. The smell of it baking fills my Home with a singular kind of Peace and Comfort. I can almost feel the healing of it in its Smell.
Today, with these words, I give thanks for what I call the Rough Magic. The transitional moments when Chemistry Changes the flour and yeast to bread, the veggies and meat to soup, the seed to a flower.

I believe that God is in those moments. I believe that God is always present in the Making. And I am Thankful.