Woman at the window

"Alupka," painting by Sergei Arsenevicha.

A cursory study of paintings of women tells me that windows are significant in women's lives.  In Los Angeles it is every bit the spring morning I might have wished for.  The heat that made sleep difficult a day or so ago seems to have lessened, there are no clouds though yesterday's sky gave me a sense of altitude, mimicking a mountain summer edging toward fall.  The apartment window, slid fully open, lets in Saturday suburban noise but it is the wind, the breeze, that I hear, especially through the palms.

Space and time, as I've written possibly too often, can grow imprecise for me.  If there is a veil which protects us from seeing too deeply into matters not presently residing in this reality, that veil at times can thin.  It feels like stepping from the fixed and comprehensible bank into the river and surrendering to the unknowable current.  From the separate self to merging with everything, all that was, is and might be.   My present indoor existence would shrivel without the breath and vision delivered through an open window.

Winter stunts me as I wrap in layers and watch everything beyond the sill through glass.  I know other influences sparked today's communion with the cosmic whole, yet what the skin perceives plays a part.  Beyond that, I think my greatest wisdom is the product of a knowing that circles outside the ordinarily identified senses.  Once I chose to trust the clear, specific guidance that speaks to me in unexpected moments, I felt I had an ally, a mentor, a really smart sidekick who knew things I could not.

I daydream through my window, hypnotized as I am this morning by what is green and swaying or by a fog bank, by drifting clouds, by jetliners preparing to turn and land at LAX.  Even when closed, the window is permeable.   When open, no obstacles exist between me and what might be possible.  I am not sure that would be true at ground level but here in the sky there is unfettered access.  Now it is May and what stirs the branches stirs me.  I sail, I soar, if only in my mind.

"Summer in Cumberland," painting by James Durden.