Blessed are they who noticed that the sky today is clearer than yesterday.

Blessed are they who turn their heads at an infant's cackle as if they had never heard one, although they have.

Blessed are those professors who see it when a student is not doing well.

Blessed the priests who venture to the fissure on the ground to find there a sheep, its leg snapped, bleating helplessly.

Blessed the husband who remains awake past the owl's song to watch for the ill child.

All would object, but blessed are they whose snot fills their sweatshirts and whose throats are rent in two from screaming, who squeam a tearless cry and move about as a scorpion surrounded by flames, who are restless and in their restlessness rest.

Moreover, blessed those who have walked away. They knew it was their greater peace.

Blessed are those who remain planted where they are planted, for they shall be like the bamboo which grows not for years, and then pierces the air like a sage spear, reaching heaven before any strong tree.

Never forget the ones whose silence founds their greatest prayer and quietly stills the cry of the gray, gone penitents.

Blessed are those who are nothing on this earth.

Because all they have to be, is.