The house our family moved into three decades ago included a large bank of windows in the living room, which gave us a wide view of the front yard and street. Our kids needed more privacy as they grew, so we installed shutters to make things cozy.
After many seasons, our son and daughter moved out to lead lives of their own. When my son, William, returned from college to visit last year, he asked if, for the first time in years, we could swing the shutters wide open. He’d spent a gray winter in a cold city, and the prospect of sun on his face while he sipped coffee on the couch seemed especially welcome.
After obliging his request, I wondered why we’d shuttered our windows for so long. Our yard had gradually changed, with an abundance of trees and shrubs that now subtly screened us from passersby. The logic of living behind louvered slats no longer made sense.
Why We Wrote This
Even small adjustments in one’s life can pay big dividends. For our essayist, simply casting aside his shutters revealed new glimmers in his day.
Opening our front windows opened me up, too – mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Sunlight flooded the front room, burnishing our old wooden floor a warm shade of gold. I now had an unobstructed view of the bird feeder hanging from our crape myrtle, giving me a front-row seat in a lively theater of goldfinches and titmice, cardinals and chickadees. I could now see the life of the street and nearby sidewalk, too – the strolling grandmother, the young runner, the radiant grade schooler trying out her new bike.
The view proved so grand that we decided to keep it long after William returned to college. I’ve found myself drawn more to the window than to the TV in the nearby den, so I’ve been watching less and spending more time focused on the life right in front of me. In an anxious time for America and the world, cutting back on TV has been a boon, I think, for my attitude.
Because a spot near an open window makes a really good reading station, I’ve stocked a table near my armchair with a pleasant pillar of books. A few novels, some history, and a handful of poetry beckon on the odd afternoon when my chores are done and I can dip into random volumes, the changing slant of light marking the day’s slow progress toward dusk. Those bookish hours have been a source of calm in a season of challenge, and they wouldn’t have been as rich or rewarding without that set of windows as my companion.
But our open windows have been a bit more than an exercise in sedentary ease. Look out a window long enough, and you’ll eventually be invited irresistibly outside. Quite often, while sipping tea from my cushy perch, I’ll notice that our visiting finches – tiny birds of bottomless appetite – have once again emptied all the sunflower seeds from the tube feeder. That nudges me outdoors to replenish the supply – an errand that inevitably leads me to half a dozen more domestic urgencies: the weed that needs pulling, the porch that needs sweeping, the potted fern thirsty for another swig from our watering can.
Before I know it, an hour or two has passed, my mind comfortably carried on the current of small things to do. These outdoor interludes, so good for mind and body, wouldn’t happen so often without those windows to tease me beyond my threshold – portals to my private Eden.
All of this happened, I’ll point out again, because one of my children asked if we could open our shutters. So often, when I think of transformative change, the usual things come to mind: a radical new meal plan, an aggressive new exercise program, an ambitious app that can teach me Chinese or French.
All of those things have promise, and yet I’ve been moved to think that even small adjustments in one’s life can bring big dividends.
If you don’t believe me, then throw open your shutters, and see what happens next.
