Spirit of Place

-- June 2001


Technically, I suppose, a window is not a place. It really has no distinct qualities of its own, instead drawing its color and depth from what lies beyond. Moved to another location, the same window would recreate itself, becoming its new surroundings. One might be tempted to think a window is merely a conductor of visions, a "borrower" of essence. It is all of this, yet at the same time is a tangible, solid object that can be touched, cleaned, opened. It can be broken or removed, covered or enlarged. Yet when separated from a building, a window becomes nothing more than panes of glass in a wooden frame. For all its simplicity, my favorite place is at a desk in front of my living room window.

As far as windows go, mine is fairly plain. The frame is simple and the glass clear. No fancy woodwork surrounds it. No expensive drapes decorate it. In front of my window sits an old wooden desk, handmade by a distant uncle. It is not a very comfortable desk, not ergonomically designed like the fancy ones in the store. The sheet of glass protecting the top can get very cold, especially in the winter, and many times I've toyed with the idea of removing it so I could feel the wood on my arms. Sitting at the desk is a small, wooden, spindled backed chair whose seat is too small, or perhaps it's my seat that is too big. A good portion of the finish has worn off and the raw wood shows through. On the windowsill rests two framed photographs. One is of my brother, on his wedding day, beaming with pride next to his new bride. He was killed one month short of their second anniversary. His photograph reminds me of my connection to the past, to what has been. It challenges me to appreciate life. The other photograph is of my children, younger and more innocent than they are today; different and yet still the same, much like myself. On the desk sits a computer monitor and keyboard, an electronic photograph of the future.

Sitting at my desk, I can look at the window and see a slice of another world, a living diorama. There is a beautiful hemlock so tall it must have been around since before I scraped my first knee. So many birds abound I wonder how they can all fit into this single frame. Peppered among the trees are rooftops protecting generations of families, witnessing births and deaths, good times and bad. I feel almost voyeuristic watching their lives go by, stealing a moment of peace from their monotony. The chimneys release their smoke as silently today as yesterday. The trees blow the same as they have for years. Closed, my window protects me from the rain and cold. I remain safe inside my world. Opened, it allows me to reach out and feel life moving across my skin, to smell life in the apple blossoms. Surrounded by my past and my future I sit at my window and inhale all it has to show me. And the vision it shows me is peace.