The Pocketwatch and the Pebble: The Titanic Miracle of Being.

On a day like today.

The Turtletaub's welcomed a child, kind of a witching moon little Cheever, Olaf it was, at once to find oneself a-dry and "being in the world".  Word spread, this one nudging that one, "guess what?" "chicken butt?" and all the way along the thoroughfare, like a shockwave, but certainly more joyous: the word.
 

"He's sucking his finger!" screamed a passerby as they were taking young Olaf home.

A joyous event, Olaf Turtletaub.

Thirty years, you know, and a prophet can perform no miracles in his own town, all a matter of faith fizzling, seeing the man shave or brush his teeth, you certainly get to not expecting a miracle, word salad, verbage that loosens the underwear elastic.

The wedding at Bethesda Non-Denom.

Baptized as it were, dunked like a donut in good Brasilian, he's up and looking into the light of the sky.

Listening, to a conversation it seemed few could actually hear, except himself and the particulars, a conversation of the universe, itself, or something, something that remain dreadfully indistinct and too lava lamp deformed to ever be raud into any kind of beguiling marketable clarity.

Olaf Turtletaub, that was, like a walking miracle, but not in the since, "I'm lucky to still be alive", by something else.  "You were lucky to see me, Cheevers."  "Hah yoo during?"

That kind of gemcrack touching of the fingertips, God and Man, and all, you know?  One reaching from paradise, across a gulf, the other all the way from Toledo, and nary the twain, or perpetually enjoined through the self-same whisper of all the universe overhead, which is as constant as starglow.

Something rather calling out to the infinite of it all, such as one to pick up a pebble, and think it were an accident of creation, or was it made?  A certain kind of material perfection about it, and even a permanence the human being lacks, and we call such an accident of creation?  One fellow said, that if you found a pocketwatch on the beach, and a pebble or seashell, you wouldn't assume the items were all accidents, but perhaps, stretching a bit, of manufacture by some agency.

Indeed, we are all "fearfully and wonderfully made", of some import, and made of deposit beneath that galactic whisper, maybe its just the stove-pop of the heat from the sun, maybe, but its something, perhaps, we all have in common, the implacable sky.  It may as well be a tether putting us all together as if in some sort of prison: a fleshly containment, struggling to keep hold of the soul, which is far beyond the flesh in its miraculous singularity......

Olaf Turtletaub was a walking flesh-spirit miracle by virtue of just existence, and then thinking of the finite dimensions of existence, do we put God into that same container of existence?  To just imagine.  The infinite dimensions at the outer edges of thought, and that sense of being "on", like any old toaster oven or radioset, but beyond that, to be "aware"?