occasionally i come home to a cold, dark house and i feel irritated, sorry for myself - that the kindling isn't chopped, that the house isn't warm. and then i go outside ... the sun set, moon on the rise. i reach for the hatchet. and all is quiet except for the sound of a ferry foghorn in the distance and the sound of a neighbour in the darkness, chopping his wood too. and then i remember: i am grateful.