Is there such a thing as a sustainable economy of the soul in this industrial world addicted to speed?
Only a wind from the west moves through the granite stones. Leaves fall soundlessly, right to the ground and burned right out.
In front of the ivories, the children will play loud for Mrs. Livermore, up and down the scale and then the hand right there in mid-air – a wait -- a rest.
Mrs. Livermore will count.
Then exhale.
Rest time is not lost time; rest time is what gives meaning to the rest of time. I roll down my window. Inhale autumn air, scent of summer dried and memory laden."
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