February has arrived, and I find myself caught between astonishment at time’s relentless march and gratitude for January’s departure. The first month of the year often feels like an extended echo of December—everyone “circling back,” resuming what was left unfinished, grasping at rhythms disrupted by the holiday season. It can be overwhelming, the weight of it all, as if the world is collectively exhaling after holding its breath.
But I have sought a different cadence this year. I have made journaling more than an occasional indulgence; I have made quiet mornings sacred. I am learning—again, as always—that without anchoring myself in God, in stillness, I fray at the edges. Left to my own hurried thoughts, I become restless, unmoored. There is something profoundly true in the idea that a person must first be rightly ordered before they can serve others well. It seems selfish to say, “I must care for my soul first,” but it is a selfishness that leads to greater love.
Meanwhile, home is becoming more of itself. Stephen painted our bedroom a deep, moody green—Essex Green by Benjamin Moore. It holds the light differently at different hours, a color rich with depth, flowing seamlessly into the Soft Black of our living room. There is something about dark, thoughtful spaces that call to me—dark academia with a whisper of French romanticism.
Stephen also dismantled our beloved kitchen table, not as an end, but as a transformation. He is repurposing the wood into bookshelves, and I can hardly think of a better gift. American Chestnut stain against deep green walls—a setting worthy of more books, which, of course, I will have no trouble acquiring.
February brings change. I sense it hovering on the horizon, not yet fully revealed, but unmistakably near. And with that nearness comes the ever-present question: how does one discern God’s will? Is it in the appearance of new opportunities, the kind that feel good and right? Or am I simply inclined to interpret what I desire as divine direction? I am not God. How then can I know I walk in step with Him?
These questions have no easy answers, but I have found peace—not in resolving them, but in resting in His presence. The Mass, scripture, and prayer have been my refuge this week. Every passage I have read has met me like a whisper of reassurance. Prayer has slowed my heart, stilled my anxious questioning. And the Eucharist—what an unspeakable gift. To receive Christ Himself, to be drawn back into His love, to be re-centered in the only place that truly holds.
What beauty. What grace.
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