I am always taken by the sparkling of dust in the sunlight. It makes me wonder how it is possible for something to be so magical, but at the same time, so commonplace.
This everyday magic is everywhere.
TV static is the roaring symphony of empty space.
A flame burns in a holy place, forever lit, but it does not compare with the eternal flame that beats like a heart beneath our feet. And fleet, our planet spins and swims in vast invisible orbits around a nuclear orb yet greater.
The sky, the clouds, this tiny precious rock. A kid kicks over a tin can and it clatters noisily across asphalt. Stars sparkle, already dead and yet they sparkle.
Already dead and yet they sparkle.
And the world moves so fast it’s a wonder we don’t feel it. Feet firmly planted on the ground as solar winds whip around us. We have surrounded this orb with satellites and from on high they look down on us, like Gods.
Like Gods they offer dire warnings: weather alerts. CO2 emissions. Like Gods they do not lift a hand to help, they only see.
And with the omniscience of satellites we come to understand with yet greater clarity the fragility of this life-bearing rock, this space-based terrarium.
Is this not magic?
Is not the earth lit like a mote of dust by the light of the sun?
Perhaps another God watches us, as I watch a mote of dust.
And we sparkle.
Michael Scott Hand 