There is a window in my bedroom wall that faces west through
which, when I am inside looking out, I can see the rise of a mountain, its
flanks like bits of blue paint splashed between the trees that grow close to
the house. At this time of year, late autumn, the ground is papered brown with
fallen leaves and every branch and twig is gilded by the early morning
sunlight. Through bare branches I can even glimpse the pond across the road
where geese are gathering by the hundreds to plan their journey south. A gray
squirrel scampers in the leaves, a cardinal flaunts its jeweled feathers, a
chickadee pipes a morning tune. All that I see is natural – birds, water,
trees, mountain, sky. I’ve made none of these, own none of them. They frame my
day, I move among them. They are what’s outside that window. They don’t come
in.
Ah, but I can go out. I can gaze into my house from the
other side of that window and see what the trees, the squirrel, the birds might
see if they cared to look in. Should it be a surprise that the first thing I
notice in that window is me, looking back at me? There I stand, reflected, surrounded
by sunlit trunks, gazing into my own eyes. Only when I change my focus can I
see the room I’ve left, the walls beyond reflection, the window in the east
wall, my computer where I’ll record all this, the wall of book-crowded shelves,
the ceramic turkey I’ve forgotten to replace with something more Christmasy. I
notice that from the outside my window looks dark, the result of all that’s
reflected in the glass while from the inside, the window looks quite clear and
bright. I can see out far better than I can see in, but when I step close to
the window and shade my eyes with my hands there is my room, my things, what I’ve
made and what I own, what I am, really, reflected in things.
