beneath the window

I’m sitting at an antique writing desk that came from the house that was here before the house that currently sits on this land was raised. It was in the original cabin when my grandparents purchased it in the early 1970s, its former owners and true origin unknown. I can feel the years in its fragile bones. I can hear the time in the wooden whine when I pull open the single drawer. It has that smell, that ancient smell that I love, that you find in old bookstores or antique shops everywhere, that mustiness that only comes from a long life lived.

It is black, a faded black, with a golden trim that is even more faded than its black paint, and spindly legs that have held it up for decades. There’s a stain on the left side, a muted mark that has transformed from a blight when it was formed to a vibrant source of wonder for me an unknown amount of years later. There are nicks all over. Scratches, chipped corners, and slightly protruded nails probably older than my parents. There’s a keyhole in the center of the drawer. Where is the key that fits it, I wonder? Long lost, likely. It’s a magnificent piece of furniture, and it inspires me to write, to learn, and equally just to sit and exist. I’ve placed it by the window that overlooks the courtyard below, where the garden is folding in on itself for the winter slumber. I’ve sat here at all times of day and night, watching the canvas of light and its constantly mutating form, and I came to an understanding of why I love this desk.

It’s not the desk itself that moves me so, I realized, but instead seeing it for something bigger than that, a vessel for seeing the world directly in front of me. A vessel for openly experiencing the beauty of life, which is, the understanding of self and of one’s present place. This small and ancient desk is my ship and I am its captain, looking out over a tranquil sea that fills me with immeasurable joy and awe. It simultaneously grounds me to this spot and frees me to fly.

The passage of time is not something that’s passive or unknowable anymore. Looking out this window over the still courtyard, I see it happening.

When I rise from it, to go out into the world that I see differently now, I will go with a smile on my face knowing that it will await me beneath the window, ready to have me sit by it again.