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Someone brought me a bouquet of one enormous head of nearly flawless broccoli, surrounded by six flowering and flagrant arms of elderflowers, all of which she had meticulously grown herself. While smiling wistfully at the crown in her hands, she said, "It's a miracle, this head of broccoli." And now, in touching generosity, she was bestowing this marvel upon me. In its essence, life can be perceived as an exchange of miracles.
Although I do not possess the deft touch of a master baker, one of my favorite joys is a perfectly golden biscuit, still warm, smeared with salted butter and strawberry jam or maple syrup. I found out my neighbor's daughter had died. I went to the kitchen, folded some flour and lard, and salt together, and made a batch of my imperfect biscuits. I wrapped them, still warm, in a linen towel with a bunch of newly bloomed lavender from my garden and brought them to her door. The warm buddle passed from my hands into hers with a shared sigh. It wasn't about the food but about handing someone something warm and comforting amid a nightmare. It was about a pleasant and sincere momentary break from the road of pain. Life, at its core, can be embraced as an exchange of miracles.