Miracles

Hace unos años pisé Barcelona y aquella ciudad catalana (siempre guardándola en su justa dimensión) no me cautivó como otras ciudades.

Hoy y desde hace algún tiempo, no hay mejor lugar donde conciba caminar una soleada mañana que allá. Quiero caminar una vez mas su Passeig de Grácia, subir a Montjuic y respirar el aire del mar.

Y sin embargo cada vez que miro hay una larga lista de cosas por ver: Los baños de Budapest, La mezquita de lapislázuli en Isfahan, Finisterra en Galicia, las piras de Varanasi, la gran ciudad de Angkor, Inner Mongolia, el Khalka en las estepas, el desierto del Kalahari, las montañas del Kirguistán por mencionar una larga, larga lista.

Bien sea por lo anterior, bien sea porque amanecí de buenas o quizá porque me compré un delicioso café colombiamo y me quedé vegetando un rato viendo a la gente pasar.

Pero hoy me acordé de Walt Whitman, su aguda y elegante percepción de la vida. Ver con ojos diferentes:

"WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--
mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle; 30
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there".

Walt Whitman.