Looking out My Window While Lying in Bed

A short meditation on hope.

photo by Barb McMahon

A monochrome view, framed by multi-color curtains.

It snowed here last night and most of today. I feel that one in my bones. Inflammatory Arthritis doesn’t go into lockdown.

But in the cold hopelessness is a branch and on it are buds, swelling with the promise of Spring.

Just one, though.

These are early days. The rest of the trees I see are still bare, still in their winter garb.

From this viewpoint, I can almost believe I’m out in the country. Grey skies, brown sticks. Not much else.

Except.

There’s a power line threading through the trees. And one solitarily beautiful chimney. It’s made of brick painted white with black cages on top to keep what wildlife there is from climbing or flying or falling inside. The house it belongs to is 150 years old.

It’s quite a beautiful view, the first thing I see every morning. I love to study it, see how the sky presents, what progress the buds are making, if their Springtime optimism is spreading or if we’ll have to wait a while yet.

Today they say, we’ll have to wait.

But Spring is coming. That single branch whispers its promise.

Spring is coming.

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