The Origin of Passion

I sometimes wonder how one can sleep while the sky is shifting. In the past couple of days, I've slept to wake up to a thick, white world, muffled in snow. Silence, dragging footsteps, squares of bootmarks, little puffs of steam from ice-burnt faces, curled feathers of snow still hanging in the air, frozen tree trunks, shivering squirrels....it is as if everything changed in the course of a few hours. The sky shifted. And the world beneath the sky, bowed its head and followed.
It amazes me how I sleep through what can only be called half-a-miracle. (Not a complete miracle since science, with an air of scorn, pointed out that snow is a "natural phenomena"). It makes me think that there is so much that I never think of until it faces me in its soft, white, tangible form. One must live the process. After its fallen, its magnificence provides hints to the passion whithin its seemingly controlled power on the world. To live the process, would have been to live that passion. To experience it when it was first born, brimming on the edge of complete combustion, like the eye of a storm when it is created in the womb of the sea, is to find the music of the Origin. It doesn't matter whose origin. Any beginning, in a series of "middles" that form our lives, is precious.
When it's all over, there is only to see. Little to believe. We need the process to believe. The Origin of power. Passion. Miracles do not come from Gods. We make them.