Quiet light.

This morning is one of those mornings I long for.

It is not one that appears often, as I am generally bustling out the door before the sun really gets its act together, or if I do get to sleep it, I clamber out of bed closer to noon.

I don't really like either of those types of mornings, but I am a firm believer in a happy medium, which happens to be today.

I woke up on my own around 8:45 (which is now considered sleeping in, I guess) all buried under my fleece blanket like some hibernating lump. The quiet light filtering through the blinds was a cool grey with a dash of gold, suggesting cloud cover outside, but the marvelous kind that lets you be inside or out if you so choose. I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to check on my toe (which I stubbed really hard on a 10 lb weight last night. ow.) It looked meh and I didn't want to think about it. I made cinnamon raisin toast and headed back to bed for a while, just to soak in the quiet morning.

Rumpled bedsheets and a friend.

The view from my window gazes out onto the street, where, though it is very wintery out, bikers and pedestrians are very frequent. There is something magical about living in a city that behaves like a town. I feel as if I sometimes know everyone who passes by. It helps when the streets are snowy and the bike lanes are narrower, and people just have to take their time getting around. It's a 'we're all in this together' mentality, I think.

I don't want to leave this city. Not for a while, and if I did, not for long.

I went to the concert of my old friend John Mark Nelson last night. It was hosted in the Live Letters Loft, which is the home of a local photographer (complete with the most beautiful Birman cat). A night of intimate music (no stage, just a mic and an amp), cozy lighting, cookies, coffee, ale, and a charming crowd of 80 or so northern hipsters.

 I had a conversation with my friend Celeste about the varying definitions of hipsters. When she was abroad and met other US folks, none of them could agree on what the definition of 'hipster' was. Some folks see the Brooklyn 80's throwback style as being hipster. Or maybe there's a Cali version. But here, she decided, we're lumberjack hipsters. Beards and plaid and ale and scarves. And there was plenty of all that last night.

So with that on my mind, the idea of the arts being supported in homes in this town, just makes me realize how many treasures exist in the neighborhoods around me. And I lay here, peering over the windowsill into my snowy neighborhood, I just cannot imagine leaving. There is too much to keep me here. This town is home, and I wouldn't have it an other way.

Now I think I shall contemplate my afternoon, which is freakin' crazy, because both of my classes got cancelled today, so all I normally do would be go to church tonight. Huzzah!

And speaking of northern hipster culture, I do believe it is coffee shop time.

Adieu.

Songs of the Week:

Red Eyes by Thomas Azier

Hurricane by MSMR

All Waters by Perfume Genius

Shorebird by John Mark Nelson

Paperman from the Disney Short

Out of Egypt, into the Great Laugh of Mankind, and I Shake the Dirt from My Sandals as I Run by Sufjan Stevens