Stripped Down Morning

Cold outside.

Inside, the house holds —
pine-paneled walls warm to the touch,
grain darkened by years and heat,
knots gathering like quiet faces
that show themselves
only if you stay awhile.

Long johns, nothing more.
Bare feet finding the floor,
letting the morning have its pace.

I put on Josiah and the Bonnevilles.
Stripped-back songs.
A voice with room around it.
Nothing pushed. Nothing extra.

The quiet deepens.
The room listens.

This is where richness lives —
not in accumulation,
but in attention.

In walls that know how to hold.
In music that leaves space intact.
In a life insulated by care.

Simplicity like this isn’t empty.
It’s inhabited.

It gives the day somewhere to arrive.
It lets being take its time.