Window Meditation

An evening breeze creeps through the open window. I lean back in the Lazy Boy and close my eyes. I’m relieved to inhale the cool air as it slowly brushes past my face. Cooler temperatures have been a stranger around these parts lately – dry is what’s out there, just dry dead grass, even the weeds are dead. I can almost hear the soil pleading for rain.

I open my eyes and they rest on the table by the entryway. It’s littered with random things from that day out – a pit stop momentarily before they are put away in their corresponding homes throughout the house. The sunscreen will end up back in the bathroom cupboard, the eye glasses case in the purse, the library book on the bedroom night stand beside the water glass. Although they look awfully comfortable lounging on this particular table in a messy sort of way, an inconspicuous sort of way. The things that do belong on that table must be a little crowded but the wood carving of the bear and the vase full of feathers don’t seem to mind much. Do you ever get tired of being carried around everywhere, I think to myself, or does it give you much needed adventure – an escape from the places we stuff you?

The birds call their evening requests in the shade of the cedar trees beyond the window.
The windbreakers hang listlessly on the coat rack – how nice it would be for that kind of complete relaxation. The lack of form suggests a respite from hugging someone’s back all day long – their work is done for now.

My eyes easily climb from the coat rack to the wooden shelves with the glass doors. Dad pulled that out of the shop one year and fixed it up; boasting that he could use it for something useful. He doesn’t throw things away very easily, “You never know when you might need that,” he always says, followed by an eye roll from me. The faces in the photos and figurines stare back at me. We are still here – they say – do you notice me now? We’ve always been here looking out at you wondering where you go and what you do – and then welcoming you back when you arrive home again. I blink a few times, oblivious to this fact.

I take another deep breath.

A picture of dad in his youth proudly holding up a bobcat he’s just killed – time has faded it to a reddish tone, the rusty color gives a new meaning to the image somehow. An empty box of candy cigarettes, “Just Like Dad” it exclaims on the front complete with floating heads of a father and young son. A childhood reminder of a long ago joke between my cousin and I – expert candy cigarette smokers in our day, mind you. On the right top shelf is another trinket, encased in egg shaped glass is a Japanese scene of a tower atop a cliff with a crane standing in reeds below. This was a gift from my mother who passed away several years ago. I remember when she gave it to me I asked what it was, too young to understand the intricate handiwork – she patiently explained the stylized art form.
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The breeze tickles the maple leaves beyond the window. It’s getting colder outside, time has passed without me noticing.

I thought I saw the woody reeds in the sculpture sway slightly just for a moment. If I leave the window open tonight that must be what the crane rustles his feathers at in his glass dome.

As I ponder the crane, a thought crosses my mind. Have the significance of these objects dried up along with my lawn or faded like the pages of the library book lying on the table? Moments are carefully held in the weight of these objects, in the curves and creases, the angles and shadows. Kept safe and out of harm’s way, partitioned by glass.

My gaze shifts down to the coat rack and then over to the table of things and out the window. I sigh abruptly as thunderheads build in the distance. My heart beat slows against the back of the chair as I smell rain marching up to my window.       

Everything slows as I meditate at the window.