It's a day of hazy, cloud blurred sun. A tickle of a breeze brushes through the trees creating a hushed murmur. I set about the task of hanging freshly washed clothes on the line. I bend to the wicker basket, reach for a wet shirt, shake it and pin it to the line. The breeze takes it and makes it dance like a pinned puppet on a wire. Brushing the hair from my eyes I repeat the process, kicking the wicker basket with my bare foot to move it down the row as I go. I feel so completely connected to this moment. A chore I have done for forty years and yet every time, a wave of sublime contentment and tender peace washes over me as I participate in this simple, mundane, tiny movement of living.