“And what is more generous than a window?”

My workstation is next to a window. When buying this apartment, I paid extra for a room with a view. I didn’t want to live in a space where I see walls everywhere. (Yes, privilege)

I sit with two plants in front of me – black ZZ plants, the only ones I haven’t killed yet. A pink, wilting rose in a little vase gifted by a friend. Alexa. A languid white Buddha. A Celtic ‘circle of love’ plate. A plastic cow, an electric candle, and a diffuser. 

And the view. Every time I turn to the right, I see green: the Indian beech tree with white blooms, swaying palms, the expanse of the sky, and manicured lawns. After almost 15 years of working in corporate, where all I had was harsh white lights and a screen to stare at, I am aware of this privilege I have earned. 

Because nothing is more generous than a window, as American poet Pat Schnieder will tell us.

I hadn’t read Pat before, but I came across her poem and fell in love. Like me, she was born in June. She died in 2020 in Amherst, Massachusetts, the same place as my love, Emily Dickinson. Across her lifetime, Pat wrote 10 books of poetry and nonfiction. She was also one of the most beloved teachers of writing. 

A writer, she often was fond of saying, is someone who writes. That’s it. A writer writes. 

“When we write, we create, and when we offer our creation to one another, we close the wound of loneliness and may participate in healing the broken world.”

Pat had a deep inclination toward spirituality, which is why her work appeals to me so much. 

This poem reminded me of how we miss the joy in the ordinary: the soft feel of a paw, whispered secrets, a kettle boiling, clouds waving, the flow of water from the sink, laundry, holding hands, a caressing breeze, peppermint, a walk.

And a window.

It’s here. Right here where the patience of ordinary things can make our lives extraordinary. 

I hope you find your ordinary today.

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