When you find yourself wandering historic grounds, you submit to a certain amount of nostalgia and respect for an older, presumably wiser world. When the historic grounds happen to also be your former place of residence, the narcissistic nostalgia overpowers almost anything else. Your own past becomes part of an ancestral history; your own adventures in that place become legend, if no where else than in your mind.

So this is where I am on today’s lovely Monday morning. Strolling the pathways along the brick and columns, no more a stranger than anyone else there is to see. There are few to see. At 7AM, I remember now, college kids are most likely dreaming their college kid dreams, hitting the snooze button, or figuring out how to sober up in time for their 9AM Econ class. And yet I am pausing in every doorway, making sure that certain things are still where I remember them, just in case.

Last night’s concert was so perfect. The performers (Devon and Paul) spent what probably added up to 30% of the time making sure their guitars were in tune. Unlike most situations, it was a pleasure to watch and to hear. Putting the pieces together in tiny parts that you hope are going to end up sounding just so. This morning, the campus feels like an entire population of folks who are tuning up as well. The sunlight creeps up the side of the buildings, turning the centuries-old brick into fire, as the echoing voices of students begin to approach. This sound, too, is quite pleasing.