You have to work at the romance of it all. Loving, sure, but for living as well. Even the most beautiful of places can dim when you’re not looking for the best croissant, but instead going to your dentist appointment.
Maybe it’s too literal, but yesterday, to improve the view, I started washing windows. Will that guarantee a rainy day today, even in one of the most sunny places on earth? Most probably. But I would do it again. And will. Because that moment of clarity in which I see it — really see it — the beauty all around me, without the dust of ordinary, this view is priceless. So I make the effort.
That is not to say that it doesn’t often come with condition and complaint. I’m not proud of it, but it does happen. But if I’m going see the beauty through the imperfections of a streaked window, then I have to allow the same for myself. Because these “streaks of imperfection” show the work put in, the effort made. And there is beauty in this. Perhaps even me.
So I ask of those around me, near and far, when I make the smudged attempts at beautiful living, even when I fail, perhaps, fingers crossed, heart hopeful, you will see the love in it all. Through the streaks of romance, beyond the damage and the dust, we all, I suppose, await the sun.
I didn’t like the dark. Windows and doors were meant to open — that’s what I learned from my mother. Even in the winter, even if she had to blowdry the windows open, she gave us a blast of fresh air.
I didn’t really want to go to her house. We weren’t really what I would call friends. We had been in classes together. A few summer softball teams. In the fifth grade she beat me by one basket in the National Hoop Shoot contest. She invited me over to see her trophy. “It’s the gracious thing to do,” my mother said. My ten year old concerns weren’t really consumed with being gracious. Maybe it was because we were standing in the breeze of the open winter window. Maybe it was because she looked so bright, so sure, so lovely, and “if this was gracious…” I thought, I wanted in, so I agreed.
She pulled up to their house. Left the car running. “Go ahead,” she said. Handle on the door, I froze, no longer for winter reasons. I couldn’t see any lights on. “They’re expecting you,” my mother continued. The pulled shades said otherwise. Not wanting to admit fear, I slowly opened the car door. Clumped through the unshoveled walkway. The screen door, still attached, hung by one hinge. I tapped gently. I turned back around. My mother gave me the scoot sign with her waving hand. Never in my history had I wished so badly that no one was home. The doorknob turned and the better basketball player opened the door. My mother pulled away. In one hour she would return. I stepped inside slowly to take up extra seconds. It was even darker inside than I expected. But I could see her smiling as she led me to the sofa — the sofa with the coffee table that held her golden trophy and weeks of old newspapers. I had never really seen her smile before. I sat down and listened to how happy she was that she won.
I could hear something in the corner. What was that? That rhythmic noise. A motor? I jumped when I saw movement where the noise was coming from. It was a human. “It’s just my mother,” she said. “Sitting in the dark?” I thought. I could see the outlines now. Long hair. Hands on the rocker. Was there a clock somewhere? How much time had passed?
She went on about her win. At least it drowned out the breathing from the corner. She told me about each attempt at the free-throw. I never really thought about money before. I didn’t think about who was poor, who wasn’t. I don’t even know if we had more money than they did. Probably not. But we had light. Sweet and glorious light. We had open windows and fresh air. I had a mother who stood in it. Gracefully. Never was I more thankful. For the next 57 minutes, I offered up this gratitude.
In the end, I was happy she had the trophy. She deserved it. The shiny gold was the only light in the room. And I was thankful that she had that. Still, I’m not sure I was all that gracious, as I ran to the door, waving my goodbyes when I heard the honk of my mother’s car. I jumped between the steering wheel and hugged her so tightly. “You can open the window if you like,” I said. She smiled and we drove away in the gracious fresh.
