WINDOWS
I had a childhood window which through the condensation had wood pigeons in the trees. Then I had a teenage bedroom with a window rarely opened. I had a window at university. I had a window at my grandparents looking across rooftops. I had a window in Bushey. I had a window in Bethnal Green. I had a window in Golders Green. I had a window in East Finchley. I had a window back in Edgware overlooking a street light. I’ve looked out of bus windows. I’ve looked out of train windows. I’ve looked out the windows of schools, hospitals, hospices, restaurants, cars, shops, job centres, swimming pools, coaches. I’ve looked out of windows over kitchen sinks. I’ve looked out windows of office toilets - at bricks devoid of sunlight. I’ve looked out of windows of waiting rooms in court. I’ve looked out of windows waiting to be called in to see the head teacher. I’ve looked out of windows in towns I’ve had to spend half a day in. And windows in awful key card hotels at carparks. When you think about it – the entire world is virtually all windows? Except for the walls. And the doors. And the floor. And any other bits which aren’t windows. But even the bits which aren’t windows are windows into something if you stare at them and consider their fraternity. Very few walls will get to meet other walls. It’s a shame. But that’s for another time. We’re talking about windows. The tragedy of windows is everyone looks right through them - not at them - even though they dutifully fulfill the task we ask of them on highstreets and mock tudor pubs. Stained glass windows - an exception - have to tart themselves up in order to get any attention. What an impossible standard we place on windows that they have to adorn themselves with images of G-d to even get a glance. But suffering Christ doesn’t save these windows. They still don’t come close to being the best windows. A window with peeling paint on the frame in the backstreet of a seaside town is clearly better. Or the peeling paint on a charity shop window in another backstreet. But even these aren’t the best window. I’m sorry if you think I’m looking into windows too much. But they’re there to be looked into. Or out of. And to let in light which lingers most of the day and packs up to leave at night. Question: when we open a window does the outdoors come in or the indoors go out? Who can say? Windows, windows, windows. Cumulatively we look through a lot of windows in our lifetime. I’m not looking out a window right now as I write. The curtain is drawn. But behind the curtain is a window. I saw a kestrel through that window once. And even two tiny deer at dusk tip-toeing beside a fence. But in all this talk there’s one window that’s still best of all. One window that steals the thunder from the most G-d adorned stain glass window and doesn’t even try hard. One window everyone has looked at and everyone knows. It’s that most sacred and mundane of windows: a window with rain beating against it. Happy tears of pane. Pleasurable pain. Optimisitic despair. Meaningful emptiness. Seconds, minutes, hours, days all unified into a timeless moment of thudding repetition. The rain drumming a march into ourselves. A window offering a view into our own tranquilised souls. Aware of everything whilst totally unaware. These are the best kind of windows…