What to do w/ your hands

I am reminded, every so often in life, how much is really muddling through. Doing the next thing. Doing what seems right, but who knows.

How much of the day-to-day is captured in that brilliant bit from Tolstoy:

"Peter Ivanovich, like everyone else on such occasions, entered feeling uncertain what he would have to do. All he knew was that at such times it is always safe to cross oneself."

That seems to me to be a core religious experience, right there. The awkwardness.

The moral of this is probably that I should read more Tolstoy.

Or old dead Russians in general.