On Friday we got new windows in our house. Not typically high up on a to-do list when the world is ending, but we’d put the order in last October, so here we are.
The widows we replaced were original to the house--built in 1984 which makes it just one year younger than I am. I can’t help but think about what these windows have seen throughout their lifetime. Rayona Carter in her kitchen, tomatoes piled high on the counters waiting to be sauced, salsad, and packed into jars to crack open and savor during the darkest days of winter.
Marv in his shop, working away on his cars. Kids out front being loud and rowdy throughout endless summers, campouts in the back under the trees. The windows watched it all. The morning sun has shone through the front windows thirteen thousand some odd days. The back windows have watched the moon set behind the mountain the same amount of nights.
Christmas tree lights, friends, celebrations, eager faces pressed on glass looking out at the first snow of the year; each has taken a turn in the window.
But along with the memories, the dirt, grime, and wear of thirty six years have built up inside the glass. Foggy and muted around the edges, a little harder for the light to shine through.
Until the new windows came--now I can see clearly. I didn’t realize we’d been living lacking so much light.
As I dozed off to sleep Friday night, I wondered about my own windows--the two green dots that connect the outside world to my inside world. Everything they’ve seen, light diffusing into my soul. It made me wonder how I could easily clean them up--wipe away the fog from decades of use and allow more light to shine through.
We stayed home this weekend...nothing out of the ordinary from the last six weeks of staying home, except that it was...it felt different. We threw ourselves into it this time, not wishing we could be somewhere else. We dug and shoveled and moved earth with our hands. We trimmed and shaped and gave uneven haircuts to trees and bushes. We built garden boxes, picked rocks, cursed rocks, mowed grass, and watched our burn pile grow with bits and pieces from every corner. We ate outside, napped outside, read outside, played outside, and never once thought about the couldn’ts and can’ts and wishes and wouldhaves.
We were just...HOME. And happy to be. It’s taken a while for us to get to this point--a point of not feeling so restless--but our roots are beginning to take.
Despite the aching muscles and extra sun kissed backs of our necks, we realized the luxury that being home is. Having a place that is ours to nap and move earth. No need for a corner to run off to, but planting ourselves in place--OUR place--to just be. A space to build our own memories; garden bounty overflowing the counters, rowdy kids out front. The windows a witness to it all.
I wiped the dust from the weekend out of my watery, tired eyes. When I opened them up, I could see the good life. Clearly.