Windows

"People are like stained-glass windows.  They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." 

 

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross 

Friends and family frequently suggest I get curtains, shades or blinds for my windows.  I’ve lived in my home for over seventeen years now and the only window I’ve managed to dress is my bedroom window.  And those I rarely cover with my transparent curtain.

I’m drawn to windows.  I’m startled by their light, the colors they reveal and the striking contrast of shape and hue from foreground to background.  Even at night, I walk into my front room and see a beam of nearly blue light, so clean, not like the constant din of the yellowed streetlight, and I know it’s moon glow.   

 

Or once in a while at school, when the windows are open, I’ll stop my class and point out how beautiful a student is in their royal blue framed by the new green outside the window.  They turn, some rolling their eyes at my comment, “Whatever.”  But one or two say, “Yeah,” truly struck.

Sometimes I feel like the windows at school.  They’re coated with a fog that diffuses light and color.  They separate the inside from the outside.  The purpose, I suppose, is to minimize distractions for students.  They have a contrary effect on me.  The haze distracts and disorients me.  My focus is limited and slowed.  Sweet Tania says something funny and I miss out on the laughter I could have shared with her because we have to learn.  Yasmin, one half of the disrupting duo of the class, smiles at me and I only scold her for not working.  But when Brenda offers to write the class contributions on the board, and I relent, I open a foggy window and let the light in.  Yasmin’s smile comes into focus.  Tania’s teasing becomes familiar and warm.  The other students make their contributions, and Brenda highlights them all on the white board.  I can breathe in the fresh contributions of others, which, maybe more than anything else I do as a teacher, or as a human being in this universe, is my great contribution.

After school on Wednesday, in my classroom with the windows wide open and the warm air blowing, our yoga class stretched, danced, and extended limits.  I love the teacher and her light spirit.  She’s like that stained glass window that shines from within.  She sings and makes fun little sound effects when demonstrating.  She loves sharing Sanskrit, her body and heart with us.  She flows back and forth from English to Spanish for the parents who attend.  I love listening to the Spanish and wouldn’t care if she never spoke English.  But something she said to me in English, as I was thanking her at the end of class, struck me, like the crystal moonlight stretching across my floor.  She said, “Thank you.  You inspire me.”  I asked myself on my way down the stairs, what did I do?  I just did yoga at her lead.  I wondered, did I do something special?  I know now, the answer is yes.  I listened, I laughed, I appreciated her contributions.  I opened my window and let her light dazzle me.  There we were on the dingy floor surrounded by scraps and paper balls kids had thrown across the room throughout the day missing their points.  On our smelly mats we stretched and tensed and loosened, laughing and grunting in a common language.  We opened our windows and breathed. 

So appropriately, that as I began writing this, wondering where I was going, my little neighbor popped her head in her open bedroom window which faces my dining room window and said, “Hi. Lindsay.  What are you doing?”  I wanted to continue what I was doing, but I couldn’t refuse her offer to read a story.  When she moved from background to foreground, my world expanded.  I let her in through my window, and I was inspired.

I keep thinking about those window treatments.  And I keep thinking about my yoga teacher’s words.  What an incredibly generous thing to say to someone: “You inspire me.”  For now, I think I’ll keep my windows uncovered.  I’ll keep trying to find the balance of figure and ground.  I’ll keep practicing breathing in the contributions of others.  I’ll practice generous words with my students who may miss points but who keep their windows open, waiting for the pleasant interruptions from other open windows.

I’m going to make a light lemon pound cake (hey, isn’t that an oxymoron?) with the windows wide open, so the smell will waft into my neighbor’s window.  Can’t wait to offer a piece to my little next door reader and tell her she inspires me.

Light and Lovely Lemon Pound Cake

2 1/3 c. sifted cake flour (I use unbleached flour and remove 2 T. for every cup.)

1 t. baking powder

½ t. salt (I rarely use salt in cake.  I just don’t get the point.)

2/3 c. butter softened

1 ¼ c. sugar

3 eggs

½ c. milk

1 t. grated lemon rind (I never use this.  I just don’t like it.)

2 T. lemon juice from real lemon

Sift dry ingredients onto wax paper.  Cream butter and blend in sugar and eggs until smooth again.  Add lemon juice to your ½ c. of milk.  Add dry ingredients, alternating with milk and lemon juice until all is smooth again.  Spoon into a greased and floured bundt pan or loaf pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for about an hour.  When the cake cools a bit, if it’s in a bundt pan, turn it out and sift some powdered sugar over it.

This cake is best shared on a sunny afternoon with coffee or tea and a warm breeze from a funny friend.