I am remarkably fortunate in many ways, but one of the quietest blessings stems from a simple decision I made over fifteen years ago when I first began to write. I placed my desk in front of a window. As my fingers move across the keyboard, my eyes naturally drift outward to watch the soft cadence of the world going by.
At our old home, that frame held a decade and a half of quiet stories. I watched neighbors walk their dogs through every season, push newborns in strollers, and bend to the steady work of tending their gardens. I saw children grow from toddlers wobbling on tricycles to teenagers trying out electric scooters, testing their independence on the pavement. Now, having moved to a new apartment, I was blessed to find another window. Looking out, I am met with a fresh tapestry of faces, daily routines, and passing traffic. I catch myself wondering if I will be lucky enough to watch another family grow up from this perch.
Some of those former neighbors became dear friends over time. Others remained gentle acquaintances—people who offered a warm nod or a brief “hello” as they passed, but otherwise kept to themselves. Looking at them, it’s hard not to wonder about the unseen chapters of their lives. What joys are they celebrating quietly inside? What invisible burdens are they carrying as they walk down the sidewalk?
Writing, at its heart, is an exercise in empathy, and a window is perhaps a writer’s finest tool. It serves as a gentle reminder that while we spend so much time tucked inside our own minds and memories, an entire universe of human experience is unfolding just a few yards away. We may only ever catch glimpses—a wave, a dog paused at a fire hydrant, a car pulling into a driveway at dusk—but those fleeting moments connect us to the broader human story.
As I settle into this new view, I realize that looking out the window isn’t merely about observing traffic or tracking the passage of time. It is a daily practice of gratitude and curiosity. It keeps the heart open to the quiet beauty of ordinary days, reminding us that we are all, in our own way, just passing through the frame of someone else’s window, leaving a small trace of warmth as we go.
Beautiful commentary. Why did you move? Just downsizing? I’m nosey.🤷♀️
We needed to downsize and get away from steps. Where we are has no steps.