Window to Everything

This place is a small sliver of light — a burst of bright. I’m sitting in the rectory watching the late winter sun die and its latest lethargic day, leaving the wind to do its part to bring the warmth while the rays sleepily reach down and barely touch the grass. The sky is perfect blue but will black in a blink. I’ll be left here with my warm cup of coffee and no place to be until Sunday church, then a meal with my mother. I have some books to read and a warm place to sleep, but it’s silent here, almost like I’ve taken a vow. Unless I leave the grounds, I won’t speak a word to anyone for another two days. These windows open to everything. I can see the birds at play, a vehicle passing on occasion, leaves dancing, dogs running the length of their fence rows. I can hear the wind by lowing and see tree limbs blanching. With such a gorgeous scene in front of me, I want to step outside and open my heart up so the Lord can flood in, through all his creations. But I don’t have that power. I’m just an observer, like you. My powers end at the end of my fingertips, the rounded part of my pupils. My mind can take me places far from here, if I wanted to leave. But I don’t. I’ll stay, taking in the dullness of the late day. I can feel my eyelids getting heavy. Maybe my dreams will carry me away.