I want to read a if I may a poem that your book reminded me of by Jane Kenyon, which I think captures what part of what you're talking about. Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn moving up the bales as the sun moves down like the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come. Let the stars appear and the moon just glows her silver horn. Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. And so there's an appeal to the divine for providing comfort right. There's no way around it. It