There must be always remaining in everyone's life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathlessly beautiful, and by an inherent prerogative, throws all the rest of life into a new and creative relatedness, something that gathers up in itself all the freshets of experience from drab and commonplace areas of living and glows in one bright white light of penetrating beauty and meaning—then passes. The commonplace is shot through with new glory; old burdens become lighter, deep and ancient wounds lose much of their old, old hurting. A crown is placed over our heads that for the rest of our lives we are trying to grow tall enough to wear. Despite all the crassness of life, despite all the hardness of life, despite all the harsh discords of life, life is saved by the singing of angels.
In the tempestuous ocean of time and toil there are islands of stillness where humans may enter the harbor and reclaim their dignity. The sabbath is a designated day -- also a state of mind -- a time of detachment from things, instruments, practical affairs and the hurly-burly of life's struggles. In the sabbath state-of-mind we can seek attachment to the spirit, recapturing the goodness of our essential being.