Prose from the pillow revisited

Originally posted September 2006.

There are views from bedroom windows far more fantastic than mine, but living in New York one learns to carve out space, create structure, and appreciate the composition of a view more than its beauty. The way the corner of a building comes together with a piece of blue sky, the way a tree stands to paint a perfect picture. A view. When I open my eyes each morning, that's what I see. Framed by my window is a slice of sky, a puzzle of brick, branches and leaves from the big tree, home to the songbirds.

I would be awed to wake to a breathtaking landscape, to hear waves crashing or the rhythmic pounding of a tropical rain, but I like the distant sound of the delivery trucks’ squeaky breaks and murmured voices while bacon cooks; I like the sound of workmen’s banter and kids on their way to school.

I'm thankful for the sounds I wake to each day, for the images that exist only from my pillow. It is my view, my little composition, and the sweet gift of light the sun lays so softly on the edge of the place where I dream.