It’s the most perfect autumn morning, our season’s first chill. I stepped out into the crisp, 35°F air and felt it fill my lungs. I paused for a moment, then exhaled a satisfyingly visible trail of vapor back to the universe.
The last vestiges of summer’s heat were chased out by a stormy wall of cold air that’s left behind a chilly breeze that feels like October.
My mother reminded me today that I was born on 10:03 on the morning of 10/03.
At 10:03am tomorrow, I’ll be 47.
47 sounds … old.
My relationship with religion is best described as complex, but I’ve been waiting for years to capture this cross silhouetted by the setting sun. It’s always struck me as beautiful.
Last month, I saw Pearl Jam play at Wrigley Field. Play isn’t quite the right word. Steamroll. Freight train. Destroy. Those are all better ways of describing the energy that Eddie Vedder and the rest of the band bring to their shows. It was my first time seeing them live — nearly 27 years since they dropped Ten — an album I played so much in college that my soul knows every chord and haunting howl by heart.