waggle
Beata est ergo uita conueniens naturae suae
Happy, therefore, is the life in agreement with its own nature.
In the kitchen, the dog wags her tail gently, hoping for food or attention or the assurance that she is not alone. I am again trying to track where the time goes in the hopes that my attention will be sufficient snare to trap myself into habits.
The pile of books to read in the morning has become a bit absurd, although not yet reaching monstrous proportions. I think I will, however, have to set aside one of the two translations of the Pañcatantra that I had hoped to work through, not least because it reminds me of a student I encountered on the first day of a Finnish language class some years ago. She was in the class because somewhere in her family tree, someone had been Finnish. She assumed such a proprietorial air towards the entire language that one had little choice but to cede it to her by dropping the class (although it must also be admitted that it was an evening class, and I am never at my best in the evening).