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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
4
For
a
time,
in
the
new
life,
I
was
happy
to
drunkenness--working,
eating,
sleeping.
I
was
an
animal
again,
let
out
to
run
in
green
pastures.
I
was
glad
of
the
sunrise
and
the
sunset.
I
was
glad
at
noon.
It
delighted
me
when
my
muscles
ached
with
work
and
when,
after
supper,
I
could
not
keep
my
eyes
open
for
sheer
weariness.
And
sometimes
I
was
awakened
in
the
night
out
of
a
sound
sleep--seemingly
by
the
very
silences--and
lay
in
a
sort
of
bodily
comfort
impossible
to
describe.
I
did
not
want
to
feel
or
to
think:
I
merely
wanted
to
live.
In
the
sun
or
the
rain
I
wanted
to
go
out
and
come
in,
and
never
again
know
the
pain
of
the
unquiet
spirit.
I
looked
forward
to
an
awakening
not
without
dread
for
we
are
as
helpless
before
birth
as
in
the
presence
of
death.
But
like
all
birth,
it
came,
at
last,
suddenly.
All
that
summer
I
had
worked
in
a
sort
of
animal
content.
Autumn
had
now
come,
late
autumn,
with
coolness
in
the
evening
air.
I
was
plowing
in
my
upper
field--not
then
mine
in
fact--and
it
was
a
soft
afternoon
with
the
earth
turning
up
moist
and
fragrant.
I
had
been
walking
the
furrows
all
day
long.
I
had
taken
note,
as
though
my
life
depended
upon
it,
of
the
occasional
stones
or
roots
in
my
field,
I
made
sure
of
the
adjustment
of
the
harness,
I
drove
with
peculiar
care
to
save
the
horses.
With
such
simple
details
of
the
work
in
hand
I
had
found
it
my
joy
to
occupy
my
mind.
Up
to
that
moment
the
most
important
things
in
the
world
had
seemed
a
straight
furrow
and
well-turned
corners--to
me,
then,
a
profound
accomplishment.
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