on level ground

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O Lord, I love the habitation of your house,
and the place where your glory dwells.

There is a lot to love here in North Carolina: late afternoons at the swimming hole, honey-tinted lattes, people whom I love and love me, the best professors, a room of my own, library stacks full of photography books, digging up sweet potatoes at the farm on Saturday mornings, the hospitality of new friends, a desk, a chair, Sam, Lauren, Austin, classes rich with truth. I feel content in a way that I haven't felt in some months. That is not to say it is perfect, but, in a sense, it is right.

Each season seems to have its own words, that is, a phrase that I end up mindlessly repeating in my head whenever I am walking on familiar paths, whether it be back home from class, along the quad, past the library, on the dirt footpath, or to the bus stop. Somehow these words have become those words recently. O Lord, I love. I love the habitation of your house. Not because I am there, but because being here makes me long for it more.

Other things recently: Hiss Golden Messenger, these sculptural leather plant hangers, this photographer and this photographer.
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