St. Anthony the Abbot, detail from panel originally
in Santo Spirito in Florence. Somehow I doubt
that Anthony went in for robes this ornate, and
reading glasses were a millennium away.
There was time to write in a large chair with a beautiful view, awash in the late afternoon sun.
A grilled cheese sandwich and an orange at lunch.
Watching the sunrise, sitting up in bed, wrapped up in a quilt.
The very plump (nearly spherical) cardinal in the bushes, wondering if spring had come. (Short answer, no, we are about to get 5 to 9 inches of snow.)
I walked across the fields and stood under the statue of Jesus in the far corner of the old novitiate and wondered what it might have been like to sit in a field and listen to Jesus.
Two long walks.
Listening to the pipes rattle in the walls of the chapel late at night. It sounded as if the saints had all peeled themselves out of the stained glass windows and were having a ceilidh.