Window

This past week has been restorative, and magical in ways I couldn't even have begun to imagine before we arrived. There has been much reading, writing, knitting, napping, biking, chatting and walking on the beach. I'm writing this on our last day here on this beautiful island. I think what I will miss most are the windows. They let in the wind, the sounds of geese, children laughing and the waves crashing in the distance. And the view of the sky and the water below, it's enough to make you catch your breath, repeatedly. I think Frank Lloyd was “wright” when he set about designing and building houses, the best should be a part of Nature not in opposition to it. The windows here make me feel as if I am connected to everything going on outside of the house. There are 30 windows in this house-- I counted cause I was curious-- and the view out of each is memorable. One evening I ran upstairs to the upstairs bathroom to catch a better view of the sunset. After fiddling with the screen and leaning as far as I could go, I caught it; at least enough to remind me of it when I gaze at these photos in the years to come. When I get home I want to be able to conjure up the view from our diningroom table whenever I need it most: flowers swaying, birds flying, bunnies hopping, swans swimming and the slow steady movement of the water calling me home. Now close your eyes, can you see it...
~b



My room at the beach had bars on its window. To keep people out, to keep people in? Whether it was the bars, the lack of distraction beyond flitting birds and curious wild bunnies, or the wish to not waste this unexpected gift of wide-open time, I did stay in my room, quite a lot, and finished a project I've been working on for six. damn. years. When I started this project L was an infant, we still had Bay, Baba and Tupelo, and writing time was devoted exclusively to my own files. Now there are three little boys, new horses and dogs, plenty of freelance work to take precedence, and the ever-present whisper "never going to finish" ghosting in my ears. But I did. I finished. And then I looked out the window and said hello to the spider. And goodbye to the house where I had felt peaceful for a week. Goodbye to reading on the chaise lounge with a glass of wine, watching the shadow of the house spread over the porch, over me, over the yard. Goodbye to leaning against one of the many windows while drops of rain streamed down, close but unfelt. Goodbye to the view above the sink which made the dish washing painless and fast. Goodbye to my own characters I've lived with for six years who know the importance of the sea air and the sound of the ocean.
~a