Hanging out a shingle

I stare at the painted over plaster cracks while running the copier in a dark, 40-something degree building that was once the one room school. I'm finishing a legal project that's taken most of the winter. It's one page at a time. Slow. Wind and February-style rain outside. It's about as dismal and clammy as the hold of a freighter in the north sea. I'll haul wood, go check out a painting job, play some guitar, wrestle my children and do it again tomorrow. This is the way to practice. I'm the happiest lawyer in Maine. Shoes and trousers optional.