Lately

I've been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell lately, adopting my partner's old habit of immersing himself in a different artist week by week. Today it was Blue (1971) and For the Roses (1972), albums with which I have a sentimental connection. A friend sent them to me when I was a few weeks into graduate school. Having just moved to a new state, the only places I was confident I could get to without getting lost were the university and the grocery store, and I hadn't been around quite long enough to make friends. She, having gone through the same steps several states away, mailed me a couple burned CDs to help me get through the long afternoons. I still have them, names penned in Sharpie and scratched from much playing.

Listening to these albums now feels appropriate. The new year has crept in quietly, lacking the excitement and momentum of 2016. And, to be honest, I don't have the energy I had last January. I'm glad, a little, for the stillness.

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