As the world counts things, there is not much in my care: the hearts and minds of the five people who are my family; these few, wild acres of land; these quiet spaces where I type out words.  Small as these things are, I guard them fiercely, as one might shelter a seedling, or a rare orchid bloom, for I want them to live and flourish far beyond me and my time.  I know that even if I live out a long life, I am already halfway through my days.  So I keep paring things back, zeroing in on my purpose.  The time is too short for ugliness and foolishness.  (Rise up, o you sleeper, awake!) When I go, I pray I have left a profligate, worn-out world the testimony of astonishing Goodness and Beauty.  Already I fear, these are slipping into the realm of myth and fairytale.   

"The rule of no realm is mine, but all worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are in my care. And for my part I shall not wholly fail in my task if anything passes through the night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in the days to come.

For I, too, am a steward. Did you not know?" ~ JRR Tolkien