I begin to understand how unworthy I am. There are a million things in this present moment of which I am unaware, or only vaguely, even in my cognizing that this must be the case: a million things that sustain me, a million things that I am so used to I can count scant few — on my two hands, if I were pressed. Thus is the world that we live in. What a thing is life, that dawn comes in from the outer dark, the sky shelters these frailties called humanity, the earth grows with abundant sustenance — not merely of body, but of mind, and of spirit. I begin to understand that I have in no way earned the least of these gifts, could not think to offer payment for this bodily life in any service I might be able to perform: are not even my renderings of any art a gift to me, too? I behold this moment and wonder why I ever complained that it was not perfect. No, this world is not perfect: we inevitably fall short of the promise we are born with — while all the while, the million things (of every second) that sustain us hold true, keep us being, give our lives a second chance, every time.