I see the bony fingered limbs and straggly-hair twigs of a tree outside the window. Her marked trunk is like an old woman's legs traced with veins from worn out skin. Leaves scatter round her like a calendar whose past months are ripped out and tossed one at a time.
How awful to look at life through a window. To not experience first hand true love, lost love, or the shocking plunge of a glacier-fed lake. As I age, I resist the urge to sit back and watch love vicariously from my daughters; to live through letters from a distant land.
I once had a friend who went through seven years of a bad marriage before it ended. A trusted, loved one suggested she might get through the pain by going on medication. "No," she responded, "I want to know when I have suffered the greatest pain so when I'm through suffering I will recognize it's over." If she had to suffer the lowest of lows, she wanted to soar with the highest of highs.
Why do trees undress for winter leaving themselves bare and naked against the cold? They cut down their life-generating powers and shut down to hum like a freezer.
Out the window, I see a marshmallow sky.
People are like windows. Some with drawn curtains or blinds tipped to allow only the slightest glance. Some are half drawn in declaration, "I only give a part of myself!" Some windows have decorated facades, outlined by soft green edging.
The windows across from where I sit, are like a just-started jigsaw puzzle; I see a piece of a mountain, a handful of a cloud and a chopped-in-half building.
How open are my windows?
We've all heard that eyes are the windows of a soul, and to the eyes come the soul of the earth.