Sunday mornings Carole goes early to the barn where she boards her horse to muck out stalls. She has a deal with the owner where she gets a small discount on monthly expenses, but that's not why she does it. She likes the barn, even when she's not there to ride her horse. She wouldn't think of it this way, necessarily, but its a form of worship, a spiritual practice. (Only coincidental that it takes place on Sunday morning.) Which leaves me sitting with a cup of coffee looking out the window through the trees & over the river, an activity I won't dignify by calling it a spiritual practice, since it requires nothing of me. It is a pleasant morning, with a layer of fog slowing burning off. The only (slightly) unhappy characters around here are the two younger terries, who have to wait until afternoon for their walk. Though I have to work on a book review & write a response to a paper submitted to a journal, I hope to get out in the yard & do early fall chores -- the year's final mowing of the tall grass on the lower part of the property & out along the road & distributing a big load of gravel (for paths) that has been sitting in the driveway all summer. My anxiety recedes as I get older, burning off like the fog.