This Is Why I Live My Life Looking Out The Window

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Windows have framed my understanding of life. They’re a quiet invitation to imagine an alternative to the moment in front of me, to see there is far more out there than the confined reality in here.

I remember when my grandmother lay dying in the hospice bed parked in front of the windows in the living room of her house. A group of us had gone to Pennsylvania to sit vigil with my grandparents as my grandmother’s body relented to its battle with cancer. The springtime out those windows was just starting to come alive, a reminder that life sits next to death without qualms.

We were there for a week, helping with what we could, singing “Amazing Grace” to my grandmother, and watching as my cousin donned her wedding dress for a photoshoot next to the hospice bed. This was the closest our grandmother would get to the wedding scheduled later that year.

That week was life-changing. It was my first death. I’d never seen such a thing because we don’t live in clans anymore where all of life hangs out for the whole clan to see up close and personal. I also loved my grandmother dearly.

I recall sitting next to the hospice bed, staring out the windows onto the lake upon which the house sits. There’d been so many years of happiness in that lake in the summers — and on top of it in the winters. It was from those windows that human ice fishing monitors were positioned in rocking chairs. “Tip-up!!” we’d holler to the rest of the house. The ice fishing team would yank on boots and coats, and race out to the middle of the lake to the hole where a little flag — the tip-up — was waving its excited self in a grand announcement. A fish!

As my grandmother lay dying, while the scene out those windows was all there for my eyes to see, it was not there because my mind saw other things. It saw the concept of time and the record of my memory converge so I might extrapolate meaning from this confusing event. How could someone I love be dying? How could time have traveled to such a place already? It hadn’t occurred to me that the notion of death wouldn’t be any help when real death came along. As I gazed out the window, sitting next to my grandmother, the lake became a tether between my family, our history, the world, and time.

Those windows carried me to a flicker of understanding of the contract we all have with life.

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There’ve been many windows in my life that opened to places all over the world, from cars and buildings and planes, through which I spied or marveled. Or sometimes I sat in a blind trance not noticing anything but my thoughts. At times like those, I think the window is a way to cleanse the here and now so I can enter insight, free and pure.

Growing up, my family would travel by car to visit extended family. During these road trips, the car vibe wasn’t always serene or light. I’m the oldest of four, so there could easily be a rowdy blast — from laughter or argument — among siblings, between my parents, or among a combination thereof.

If I wasn’t involved, I’d escape out the window by pressing my face as close to the glass as I could. I thought it would rid my world of the noise. It was vain hope, but it was better than nothing. The roadside flew by me like scenery on steroids and I sat there wondering what came next in the life of each fleeting tidbit I saw. That car window was my faithful coping mechanism.

I remember well the view out the windows of the World Trade Center in NYC. I visited my husband a few times when he worked on the top two floors of World Trade One. It wasn’t trivial to get up there. You had to ride more than one elevator and it took some time. Once I got up there, I’d make my way to my husband’s desk to peek in the bottom drawer to see how much candy he had stashed in there. Then I’d walk to the windows nearby and look out.

I was a quarter mile high and could see almost halfway across New Jersey. I could see the massive ships on the Hudson River which looked like toys. I could see the world. Standing there I had no inkling people would jump from that building one day because it was their best bet. Instead, I watched in amazement that my husband had one of the most incredible office views in the world — and that’s no exaggeration.

That window was unsettling though. A window can be too high. It can make you feel insecure despite its view. I never stood there for too long.

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These days, I peer through the three windows in my bedroom here in Virginia — which I’ve done for 23 years. They look out onto tree land, and I love trees. Those windows are my friends. They show me beauty, a way to gauge the high winds when they come, and squirrels.

Squirrels offer solace to the onlooker who grapples with life’s challenges. When two squirrels chase each other up a tree, their tails extend behind them, each one’s head tight to the other’s tail, and suddenly a furry ring spirals up the tree. To see this through a window can give a burst of joy, surprise, or curiosity, and those bursts can go a long way toward refocusing your fraught energies and emotions. The offerings of a window may be small but they’re not inconsequential.

Why do we look out a window when we’re spent, bored, or searching for an answer to one of life’s heavy questions?

The view out a window is a recharge. It’s a momentary space for a mental rest, a spiritual refill, or a quick infusion of interest to liven you up. What’s out there? Waving trees? Birds flitting? People strolling? Cars moving? The geometry of buildings? It’s all interesting and a change of pace from whatever we face right now, deep inside our heads.

I’m at the age when you start to process regret — of actions taken and not. It’s not an easy learning curve, but it’s necessary and good. It’s so helpful to have a window for this. It expands where I am, and connects me to a world beyond the thoughts that chain me to my circumstances.

There’s a big world out there, and to see it, even just a windowful, tells me it’s possible to dig myself out of where I’ve buried myself today. I can emerge. I can breathe. I can climb. This is why I live my life looking out the window.

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Be well, friends. Stay warm!