Feb. 4, Feast of St. Andrew Corsini, bishop and confessor.
Feeling // sleepy, the good kind. The kind of sleepy you feel after a good night's rest and a hard morning's work and the satisfaction of tasks accomplished. Of contentedness and a midday power nap.
Seeing // these oriental blossoms that bloom on a small tree in my parent's garden in late January-early February. It's a short bloom: a week, week and a half at most. And it strikes every time anew how fleeting yet how familiar this short time of year is. Like an old friend rarely seen but always cherished.
Smelling // the vanilla-scented candle my coworker gave me.
Tasting // buttered toast from this morning's breakfast.
Listening // the Juno soundtrack I loved and lost too long ago but found again on Youtube.
Grateful // for days without work. Working for money, I mean. The older I get, the more of a distributist and less of a capitalist I become.
Reading // Lepanto by G.K. Chesterton. As a whole, it is one of the most superior poems I've ever read. But I'm still partial to The Ballad of the White Horse, for obvious reasons--saints, Gaels, and the Matter of Britain!
Loving // my little boy, whose sudden burst of speech has helped me to overlook the frustrations and see the ravenous affection that was always there.
Hoping // for a smooth month; there is much to do; lots of planning, lots of changes, but I am hopeful.