Thirteen-point-seven billion years ago it is speculated that life began as two particles collided from some distant point, and their communion brought about life. This post is not about how you do or do not define existence. This is not about who or what you give credit to for creation. But, you should be warned that as I continue, a fair amount of language will be used that might make you feel like this is a religious post. I assure you, it is not. It’s merely that we’ve forgotten the origin of words. We feel as though words like holy and sacred belong in front of an altar, forgetting that in many ancient texts our bodies are called temples, leaving our consciousness as the divine. I’m in the process of taking back these words; of once again welcoming them into my lexicon and allowing myself to stand in the midst of my own worship.
Today’s word is miracle– a highly unlikely event that brings about a pleasant outcome. Life, my friends, is a miracle.
I’ve been dabbling in a bit of genealogy lately, unlocking treasures that my family does not speak about. Connecting dots, trying to put a story to the lives that eventually led to my existence. And here is what I have found:
Aside from the miracle of two particles colliding (yes, a very simplistic way of describing the sudden appearance of singularity) in a vast amount of nothingness and everythingness, aside from life beginning in single cells and mutating to more complex organisms who eventually ventured from sea to land… those of us that are here are here because of a blood-line’s worth of people who made it. They made it through the uncertainty of early pregnancy. They grew strong and resistant to disease. They made it through dark periods, rough patches, and awkwardness associated with adolescence. These are not gifts granted to everyone. Many don’t make it, but our ancestors did!
They did not die during Black Plague, nor the Spanish Influenza. They did not die in the countless wars that have plagued our globe since the beginning of civilization. They endured the long suffering of injustice, of slavery, or genocide, and they made it out alive. That in its self is miraculous.
But, for me, what is most miraculous and humbling, is that I’m here in this present form, occupying this version of me, because of a man who did not make it. You see, what researching my family history has taught me is that my Little Grandma, born four generations earlier, was married to a man that was not my grandfather in the early part of 1918. They were married for nine short months before he died in World War I.
When I look back in my family tree, it’s easy to see the branches that are there… but it’s also nice to stop and honor the ones that may have broken off. To acknowledge the loves that began to fade and that lives that were tragically taken at times too soon. We always take something from the people who cross are paths. Each moment of our journey has led us to exactly this point. Today I give praise not only to bloodline, but I also hold in reverence the hands that cradled their loves but nothing else. H.P. Fuller, hallowed be thy name.
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/14405058@N08/4697832947″>Cave Paintings, Hand Prints, 12,000 to 10,000 years old</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>