There was a local artisan sale in a rambling old house this week. Vendors, who all happened to be my friends and neighbors, brought their very best. Photographs, handmade soaps, pottery, essential oils, fresh quiches, knitted ornaments and flavored honey were attractively displayed throughout the first floor. And a bit of the second. Knowing that my generosity was trigger ready I brought six checks. 

People chatted as they browsed, making small and large purchases to give or keep. I got something artsy for my son-in-law, and tiny red hats knitted on toothpicks for the twins. Two aromatic soaps ended up in my bag as well. I will tell John they are from him. To me. That is the kind of shopping he likes to do. 

The energy in the air was spicy. Dozens, no hundreds of hours had led up to this. Photographers out at dawn crouching over a flower, bakers cracking eggs into pie shells to slide into the oven. The potter had been etching tree branches into the clay for weeks, and meticulously glazing them. Then on one day all of the beauty converged in one place. 

And I was lucky enough to go. 

My concept of heaven is much like this. People who are lit up about what they create, or sing, or build are free to unleash their passion into a form we can hold in our hands, or listen to. Yes there was money exchanged, but as far as I can tell that is not the driving force. Doing what you love is its own reward.