The practice of the bells. Their sound, echoing off the town's highest point, reverberates in the lowest. A triumphant, ordinary grace that I wonder how many people miss. Myself always included.
Maybe not bells at home. But train whistles? Foghorns? Dog tags jingling with a scratch? Repetitive alarms that signal time is fading. Life is moving. And to pause is to put a pin in it, even for just one ring.