Spring continues in our part of the world. The banana trees that die annually with the frost are reappearing vigorously from the bare soil. Basho, himself a hermit, was felicitously named “banana leaf.” He mentions somewhere how much he enjoyed the leaves against his window in summer, especially with the rain. Presumably, it, too, died, every winter, only to resurrect in the most miraculous way. But everything else is turning green, from the bare branches of the fig to the favored grass of rabbits, who also have returned. As so many sages have said, it is not the suspension of natural law that should be considered miraculous, but rather the existence of the cycle renewed indefinitely. Life itself, every moment of it, is a miracle. Would that we can always appreciate this simple truth.