“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.
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