A few weeks ago, I invited my readers to share what they see from their windows. Twelve people submitted their views. You can read the first six here. Enjoy the final six today!
Today, like many days, I stood at my kitchen window and watched a goofy pitbull bark fiercely at something. Lala comes out my neighbor's back door and barks. Barks some more. Does her dog stuff. Goes back inside. I like to hope she's barking at the squirrels who have taken up residence in my attic. I yell at them when I'm outside, too. And when I see Lala, I tell her that she's a good dog and to keep up the good work.
Paula, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Windows - I love them! We are so thankful our new home/apartment has many of them. They serve many functions: to protect from heat, cold, rain, snow, wind. They also serve to let the world into one’s home. The first thing I do each morning is open the blinds. Without doing that I can start to feel claustrophobic. I need the light, the sun, and the breezes when they are open. They serve to refresh a person. I cannot understand how people can leave the shades or curtains closed all day. Just think of all they are missing out on in letting a bit of the world in to ones inside world. At our new home we discovered that during the winter months we get to see both the sunrise (through the window over the kitchen sink) and the sunset (through the window in the living room and in the two bedroom windows.) It is absolutely amazing to see God's beauty with such incredible colors and formations. We are very grateful for our windows.
Arleen, Fergus Falls, Minnesota
Usually I look out on a brownish lawn seeing cars flash by as people begin their way to work. Today, there is a heavy, heavy fog down to the road itself. I see the brake lights on a car from my home waiting to get onto the road. I have watched it rise over the last 2 hours. It brightens up as the fog lifts. However, there is still no sun in the sky. Maybe later.
Amy, New Hope, Minnesota
My kitchen has two walls of windows, covered with prints of so many little fingers and slobber from an overly eager black lab. But the view beyond is beautiful and not too different, I imagine, from what it was 150 years ago when the house was new. And everything I see—children on the playset, hummingbirds at the feeder, the line of poplars we planted a few years back—is placed in front of a watery backdrop. The millpond. The river running through it ending in a waterfall not far from the house. The pond is the first thing I notice each morning. It can be smooth as glass or flowing swiftly. It can be stirred up brown and muddy after a thunderstorm, occasionally even washing over the top of the dock after a particularly heavy rain. Or littered with colorful autumn leaves. In the winter it is white, flat, and dead. But in the spring it comes alive. As the ice breaks into white chunks, river otters slide and dive, chasing each other in the icy cold water. Eventually the Canada geese land and stay for a day or two on their way back north. The blue heron stands majestically in the early morning mist gulping down baby rainbow trout the DNR has just released into the pond. And bald eagles swoop low to snag daring fish swimming too close to the surface. The view through my windows is always beautiful. Always peaceful. Always serene. Unlike the view on the inside.
Hope, Cataract, Wisconsin
After reading your piece, Windows, I looked out and spotted my first robin this spring. Here’s my morning view. Always looking up!
Emily, Minneapolis, Minnesota
One of my views to the world this spring comes through a yet-to-be-washed window. The gnarled willow tree has witnessed events and people (family reunions, grandkids home for a short visit, even an outdoor wedding!) over many years here at the farm, long before we moved to this place. Now I see an unoccupied tire swing moving gently in today’s breeze. Like the faintly drawn balloons floating above the heads of the characters in the Family Circus cartoons, I also imagine people who once stood or played in that spot or climbed that gnarled tree. But that mind picture does not make me either melancholy or sad. Although I am frustrated after a strong wind which brings down more willow branches than I care to pick up, that tree makes my view a treasured memories scrapbook.
Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.