From my second floor bedroom windows, I see walls of spruce trees, both to the south and east. I love to sip a leisurely coffee in the morning and watch the light playing through the branches, the comings and goings of occasional deer, and the squirrel neighbors, often chased by my indignant dog. When the sun is sifting through to the undergrowth, I am reminded of childhood stories of elves and fairies, and can almost hear tinkling laughter in the grasses.
This morning there is another beauty which one may find more difficult to celebrate in mid-April than in, say, mid-December. Heavy, wet snow has bent the branches low. No self-respecting elf would venture out into this land of wonder, or puzzlement. My chilly dog huddles on the deck, free of the harassment of squirrels, for now.
When I was a full-time educator, my early morning window sights were pretty much negligible. The day unfolded according to a predetermined set of expectations. Now I am increasingly conscious of the effect of the windows on my day. In season, I look out and consider my choices. Today I will not be working in my garden, putting laundry on the line, traveling down the road. Today I will not take coffee and a book to the deck. The windows have determined that this is a day for sewing, possibly baking, and definitely pumpkin soup. After another cup of coffee.
