Snow

The snow blows past the windows with a quiet whisper. "Rest, think, reflect." The patterns of wind are visible. Evidence of monstrous invisible force. The stuff of which early gods were comprised. 

I am amazed this wooden pile, built in 1884, which sheaths me from such power. I am fascinated by the wafer-thin layers of glass which insulate me from storm and sound without depriving me of the dimmest light. Think of it. Generations of toil and ideas, not divine interventions, brought me this luxury in a snow storm which would have terrified and tortured my ancestors.

This is a Sunday veneration service for my secular mind. I genuflect to the wonder of human evolution. I look skyward and appreciate my life as a human being on this exceptional planet. I take sober account of my use of the brain I have been granted by Nature. I resolve to do better by myself, by those I love, by my precious planet.