Beyond The Looking Glass
Maybe it is the trees or the skies beyond it. There is something about looking through a framed glass window that extends to the world outside. Perhaps there is more to looking through the window than the obvious. We don’t all look through the same window nor do we all see the same things but we do share the same world somehow.
The window is like an art piece or canvas ready to be explored. But what is it that you see? Is it the obvious or is it something more? We look through windows every day without realizing it. Our very eyes are windows to the outside world.
Some of us look through windows in search for Neverland. We search for its beauty that floats the oceans and the vivid colors of its gardens. Others search for Wonderland where castles and queens stand tall, where the Mad Hatter drinks his tea as he awaits your arrival.
When I look through my window I see stories form even under the passing rain. I see mountains, hurricanes, moonlight, and dreams. Looking out at the window today I remembered the lines in Keats poem titled The Eve of St. Mark which read:
And on the western window panes
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatur’d green vallies cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with springtide sedges. . .
Yet I had no western window, nor I a chilly sunset, nor any vallies. Instead stood just a window pointing in whatever direction I chose.
The only sunset I had was that of a sunless humid sky that looked down on the pine trees standing tall above my window. There were thorns yes, but not visible. There were rivers yes, but not visible still.
The thorns were those of past lives which sung of false promises. Thorns of lies painted in vivid colors. And they all flowed down the stream of forgotten rivers which now fades into nothingness.
What remains now is a thing of beauty that will never pass into nothingness, instead its loveliness will forever increase and remain a joy forever.
I can never forget the green valley I once saw that bloom with bright roses, the valley which glitters under the moonlight. And how can I forget the gentleness of the breeze that nurtures them, instilling them with a passion to grow, a passion to brave the storms ahead.
And whilst even roses bruise under the rain, they never falter or fall. I’d like to think they grow stronger under the bruises of each raindrop, that their petals fly out to the heavens where its colors bring joy to those of us looking up to them. These are the stories that form beyond my window.
What stories form beyond your window? Don’t let the rain stop you from making progress, instead turn each raindrop into moments of beauty.