Even though at times we find daily work a challenge, life itself is the deeper reality flowing through us. Have we become too numb to notice this?

Though we strain

against the deadening grip of daily necessity, I sense there is this mystery:

All life is being lived.

Who is living it, then?

Is it the things themselves, or something waiting inside them,

like an unplanned melody in a flute?

Is it the winds blowing over the waters?

Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers interweaving their fragrances,

or streets, as they wind through time? 

Rainer Maria Rilke