By the time I transcribe and post this, I will have returned to upstate New York, but as I put pen to paper at this moment, I am still ensconced in our condo in Boston. A glass of Riesling is an arm’s length away.

The condo is warm on this windy night; we are due for a fifty-degree sunny day tomorrow, but for now there is still a damp chill in the air, and I am glad to be in for the evening. A new book waits for me in the bedroom – After Dark by Haruki Murakami.

I’ve been away from his work for a while, and I often turn to him in the winter. There’s something comforting, but simultaneously tense, to his writing, and it always pushes me to expand my realm of what might be possible. I look forward to delving into After Dark, particularly after a recent bout with insomnia (which doesn’t plague me on actual tour stops, but rather in-between them).

Looking over these photos as I post them now, it strikes me that they may apppear more lonely than they were. There is a sense of solitude invoked here – of being alone – that I’ve always embraced. I wouldn’t trade my life and companionship with Andy for anything, but we each enjoy time on our own.

When I stay in the Boston condo, I get to return to silence. The television is shot, the stereo is shoddy, so I usually don’t even bother with either – turning them off and existing like I did when I first lived here without so much as a radio. With all of today’s technology, it’s rare to find quiet and stillness – and I thrive on both.

Tonight I am embracing the silence, and the solitude. I look up at the Hancock Tower through the front bay window, wondering at how I came to be so lucky in all that I have – family, friends, Andy – and it is too much. The heart is grateful and overflowing – I almost want to cry.