I sit between two windows, writing. The furnace clicks, gas whirrs, the blower turns on to warm the house. I opened the glass door when Liz went off to work; it took my breath away. Back to the WeatherBug on the desktop, -6. Mr. StripeyPants digs in the Iams Veterinary Formula we buy for Chaco to pull out a few choice morsels. I tap the keys, stare out the Northeast double-hung window to my left. It’s all sky, bare branches, and the tops of oaks. To the right, another window with blinds closed faces Northwest. It’s slightly behind me. Bad chi to have someone sneak up on you from behind, so I don’t open it when I’m writing. North by Northwest. I remember Hitchcock.
Windows remind me of freedom, peace. When I moved to Minnesota from Montana at age 30, I was new to the Twin Cities. I did not have a job. I didn’t know my way around. I got depressed for a time, took on the role of housewife. I’d get the chores done, watch As the World Turns (the only time in my life I have ever watched soap operas), then sit in a pine rocker and stare out the big picture window of our small apartment, the bottom of a two-story vintage 1920’s house.
The outside was white stucco. It was across from a castle-like church with a lawn that formed a triangle. Every day at 10am, children whose parents sent them to the 140-year-old St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran for elementary school would run out on the lawn for recess. The kids were noisy and happy, the teachers would circle them, blow their whistles, sometimes chase balls that dribbled out into the city street. At the bell, everyone lined up and went back inside, exactly on time.
There was a huge maple tree, tall, tall, tall, with a wide bushy crown on the side of the church next to the playground. Every Fall that tree would turn the most magnificent shade of golden red. It always took its time turning. Day by day I would watch it. I could not believe how absolutely perfect that tree was. It must have been over 100 years old. Years later, I would drive by the old apartment, the triangle, and the tree was gone. They had cut it down to make a parking lot. I cried.
The past never stays the same. It is always changing. Only memories keep it alive. What was, was, at least to us. What will be, we can only guess. Windows are a grounding point for me, a focal point. When I was a child, I used them as a form of escape when times were unpleasant. I have always rocked, from the time I was a little kid. Mom told me I used to rock and watch The Perry Como Show. She said I loved Perry Como. Windows hold freedom, escape. And sometimes they become walls. When we never go past the inside glass.
When I sit in Taos, I try to find a spot with facing windows across the room. Even if I don’t look out them when I meditate, I know they are there. And that’s the thing about windows. They let in the light, even when we forget they are doing it. Last night, the end of the March Full Moon shone through the bedroom window and landed on the pillow between Liz and me. She was sound asleep. The house was silent. I held my hand up so that the moonlight hit the tips of my fingers. There was no glow from the inside out, the way the sun shines, the way Liz came out of work yesterday with the bright winter sun blasting her windshield and said, “I feel like a mole!”
No, moonlight is reflective, subdued. And when shining through a Winter window, muted and glorious. How does it sneak past the blinds? What is it trying to tell me? When I moved to Minnesota, I didn’t have good job-hunting skills, though there was plenty of work. Now I have the skills and jobs are scarce. The Moon reminds me, don’t let that stop you. Don’t let anything stop you. If you could do anything in the world, even staring through windows, what would you choose? Within reason, within physical capacity, within the bounds and scope of a person your age, with your family genetics, in this time, I believe you can do it.
Easy does not enter the picture. Nothing worth dreaming about is easy. It’s easy to forget how many who are rich, famous, privileged worked hard to get where they are, to follow their dreams. With privilege and wealth come expectations. Families are families, rich or poor, the 1920’s or the 21st century. It’s not money that makes dreams come true. It’s taking the risk. I had a dream earlier this week. I was walking at Ghost Ranch, hiking the red iron soil in the beating sun near Box Canyon when, in an instant, I was raised off the ground, hanging on to the hand of a man with a black umbrella. He was rising in the sky next to a gray elephant. I kid you not.
A trail of other objects and animals ran behind us like a kite tail. The elephant was weightless, not a care in the world. I remember the bodily sensation of flying, of my stomach dropping when we hit a wind current, a down draft. Then came the next thermal. I felt like the raptors I so love, riding the thermals, floating on air. In that minute, I knew that anything was possible. And all the windows that once guarded and protected me were nowhere to be found.
-posted on red Ravine, Thursday, March 12th, 2009
-related to Topic post: WRITING TOPIC — WINDOW
Wow! That dream is amazing! Inspirational.
“It’s not money that makes dreams come true. It’s taking the risk” Yes.
But the man with the black umbrella is not always around to help us take flight so it’s also good to carry our own umbrella, eh?
I love the part about windows.
Thanks.
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Yep, that’s for sure! Always good to have a man with a black umbrella around to help take flight. 8) If not, I might choose to carry a bright red umbrella of my own. Good point. I have no idea where that guy came from. But I was thinking maybe it was that one commercial from a while back where the guy in the top hat with the umbrella (I think it was an insurance commercial) followed everyone around, protecting them with his umbrella? Ah, dreams. They have a life of their own.
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Fascinating how deeply we relate to windows in writing practice. Your write made me think about how I always like to have a window at my side or in the distance when I’m doing writing practice. I cannot stand to have a window directly in front of me. I find it intolerable. But I like to have a window to the side or in my middle distance so I can gaze off into it for a few seconds at a time.
I could relate to your not wanting to be snuck up on with a window behind you.
I have always had such a strong relationship with one particular window in every place I’ve ever lived — the window here next to my little desk; the floor-to-ceiling windows in my old apartment; the window that faced across the street in my childhood bedroom, where every December I watched as the rotating light display above the neighbors’ front door changed color on my ceiling before I fell asleep.
Thank you for reminding me what a rich topic this is!
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The man with the black umbrella floating in the sky sounds so René Magritte-like. 8) Come to think of it, not only do umbrellas figure in his art, so do windows.
In this writing practice, Windows are a muse. Or so it seems. A grounding point, an means of escape, a reminder than anything is possible.
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Elizabeth, thank you. I’m with you on the window not being directly in front of me. Sometimes I see these beautiful writing spaces with the desk right in front of a huge window that looks out on a vast landscape, mountains or prairie. Though it’s wonderful to think about sitting there and daydreaming, I can’t imagine writing in front of a large window like that where my chi seems to run right out the window! For me personally, I feel safer with windows off to the side of me so I can glance out every once in a while and give my mind and eyes a break by checking out the sky and landscape.
I do like windows nearby though, otherwise, I can feel trapped. I’m not fond of basements with tiny windows where you can’t see anything in the distance. I tend to like being up a little bit, too, kind of up closer to the sky. Doesn’t have to be a second story; can even be up on a hill like our little house here is.
I’m the same about windows, have always had a close relationship with them. Particularly times when I’ve been down or disoriented. Windows have provided a way to still feel safe, yet know that there is hope for something different, right around the corner. I like the way you described the rotating light display at your neighbors’ in December. It reminds me that when we’re kids, sometimes what’s right outside the window is what we relate to most when we are in the personal domain of our own little rooms.
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There is something to be said about being contained while writing. It’s my preference, too, although until now I hadn’t thought about where I place myself when I write. My desk faces a wall but a window to my right. My writing chair in the kitchen is close to the window but I tend to sit at a different chair not looking out. I thought it was just a distraction, but the idea that it has to do with energy makes sense.
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ybonesy, I had not thought about René Magritte-like but you are so right. Windows and umbrellas in his art! I do think windows are a muse for me in a way. They let in light, possibility. That’s a good observation. And isn’t it strange that a clear window could be grounding? I think it’s what I see outside the window that grounds me — usually something in nature. The sky, the earth, the tree branches. Even if I catch a second’s glance, it’s enough.
In my Pennsylvania childhood home, we had the high sliding windows on two walls in my bedroom. They let plenty of light in, yet I felt protected. And when I looked out, I could see the neighbor’s roof, the sky, things that offered possibility. I kind of liked that room. Later on, I slept in another room that had double-hung windows on one wall. It was a smaller room. But I noticed there is a totally different feel in that room, like you could walk right through the wall windows. It’s interesting how architects and designers deal with windows and window treatments, too. They are really a great concern in the planning.
In our studio, we have tons of windows on one full wall, facing South and downtown Minneapolis. But I sit furthest away from them, next to the door. I often look up and glance out the windows though, to catch my ground. And I don’t like for others to block the window view in any way so that I can’t see out. It was hard to explain that to others when we first got the studio. I still think people don’t quite get how even a clear shot at a glance out of a window can be grounding and restful.
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ybonesy, I have the exact same configuration in my writing space. I have a blank white wall in front of me and the window directly to my right. If I turn my head ever so slightly I can see the hills of Victorian houses and cottages meandering all the way down to the piers on the southern half of San Francisco Bay. I can see the water and the cargo ships and the port of Oakland on the far side of the water, bounded by the Oakland hills and (today) the haze over highway 880 over there.
But I would never get anything written if there weren’t this blank wall in front of me. I would daydream away the hours!
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Oh, a blank wall? Well, I have photos and artwork and shelves up above me. So not exactly blank, not even close. It’s cozy, kind of warm in all its color. I’ve never considered that it might be distracting. I’ll have to give that a try. See what I do when I sit there to write. This has been a good conversation, good to better understand how my physical surroundings help or hinder my work.
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It is good to look at what we like in physical surroundings when we are creating. For me, it’s different when I write than when I am painting or doing art. When painting I like music on and am much more active in walking around, looking up once in a while to stare out the window. When I write a piece, I do best when it’s silent and I get totally lost in the writing. I lose complete track of anything around me. One of the reasons I like writing!
It’s true that some people like their spaces sparse, too. And others like to have things around them. My studio is full of art objects, supplies, images that inspire me. Writing space is more happening in my mind. I can write almost anywhere as long as it’s quiet. But regarding the windows, I do like to be near them, rather than right in front of them. I’m always at an angle to the windows.
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