I chew on the divine while pondering the ever-changing grocery list of what I need to buy. I’m sure of no priest’s approval and yet I believe Mother Mary does not look down on this unorthodox rosary. After all, how many lists must she have recited to keep her own all-too-human divine alive long enough to die in time? Who can judge the radiance of the commonplace? For instance, if I place the word "eggs" as an item on my rosary and choirs of brain cells hosanna to one another, and then again, beyond measure of what I am That I am the feeling of that smooth and bumpy shell, that my mind is both creator and container of a presence, a holy ghost And even more, if I apprehend the thin, semi-permeable membrane separating what could’ve been alive from what now keeps me alive, who can proclaim that's anything but divine?