This frond of iris is a miracle, not because it is an iris, but because it exists.
Its thingness is a flower, but its Being is divine. All things bathe in the nectar of Existence. The taste of that nectar is bliss. However fallen, broken, exhausted, or small, each creature floats in the invisible waters of perfection, the Being of the Creator.
We usually see the objects of the world as foreground; we are only aware of their Existence as background, like the blue of the sky. Now a subtler field of human awareness is emerging: we begin to perceive Existence itself as foreground.
The earth, a star, a weed in a chink of sidewalk, an old tire smothered in honeysuckle, a weeping wound, all shimmer through the formless sap of transcendental Beauty.
The miracle is merely To Be. Why not dwell in perpetual astonishment? Why not bow to a drop of dew or a cricket, not because it is a thing, but because it Is? Isness is God.
If you don't understand this, I'm sorry. I can't explain it. Just walk barefoot in wet grass at dawn, and watch a plum bud gently, silently explode...