I'm going away for ten days or so. À bientôt!

[PHOTOS BY SAMUEL]

Can you believe how things change, how seasons change? My life looks completely different than it did four months ago. And, four months from now . . .

A different hour of magic.

This was taken a couple weeks ago, when it was still cool enough to have the windows closed. Now I'm sitting here in my underwear, mixing cocktails to ease—or forget—the heat. There's something I like about the battle, about toughing it out, which I'm sure is a result of growing up in a rural town and watching movies and sitcoms played out in NYC.

It seems like something you do when you're young—a naïve thought, maybe, but I don't mind.

I worked from home one day last week, avoiding the trouble of traffic and protestors associated with the NATO Summit in Chicago. It was nice to move through the workday at my own pace, stopping to read a few chapters of a book, change out records, make some tea. Midday, though, I had an even better reason to take a pause—my very own aurora borealis.

Saturday.

The brewery threw a party on Friday night, where I served and drank, in honor of Chicago Craft Beer Week. It's summer here. I can feel it in my freckled, rosy cheeks, sitting in my apartment sans AC.

I want to send a big thank you to sunscreen and ibuprofen, for allowing this weekend to be so incredible.

I

. . . spent the morning with my coffee and the paper, and the afternoon with Victor in the garden. It was sunny and warm, which was a nice change from all the rain. 

. . . had a doctor's appointment last week for a general physical, just a check-up, but she has me thinking a lot about my mind and my body and how they feed off one another. I would love to learn more about the practice of meditation.

. . . officially canceled my CTA pass, meaning my 15-mile (roundtrip) bike commute is now an everyday thing. It's peaceful and liberating for the most part, using my own energy to get around.

. . . have so much work to do before my next big trip at the end of the month. I'm trying to stay on top of it, but you can catch my heart pounding if you listen closely.

. . . feel happy and proud and fortunate for so many things, but I'm always one for improvement.

Light through linen is just—to say it simply—it.

(On a similar note: did you ever see this, from my last apartment? Makes me want to open the windows and put on a record. I will.)

We removed the blinds and bars from all of our apartment's windows to open up the space, but I could never bear to close the Venetians anyway. To some it's a normal task, but to me it's choosing white plastic over trees and birds, and grass and bricks. (Sorry neighbors! I can't do it!) But, I'll miss these little interactions—loops, knots, and tangles, all in tandem.

Sweethearts of blinds.

Loafers and light.