Work. Dawn to dusk, it never ends here. For a moment, the charm of these rolling acres folds back like a curtain and I see the black and white of it – predictability….repitition…and dare I say, monotony. But here the picture clears. It’s not a list. It’s life. It’s not the interruption. It’s the rhythm. My mind wanders home, to the brick house on the small lot with the laundry mountains and the willful child and the weary waking to do it all over again, but the picture sharpens. And this ever so small shift shakes my tired hands and heart of their lethargy. Weighty chains of something too closely resembling resentment are wrung from the day’s duties with such force I can hear them chink and clatter in the fall. The veil between sacred and ordinary lifts and work and worship marry in the shadow of the wise old oaks…and I am revived.