The open window

I’m often asked what it’s like to be a writer — how I spend my days, how I experience the world. And so I will be sharing occasional essays from the front lines of my writing life. Enjoy!

Image of green money plant in front of open white window

Spring comes through my open window

Ah, the first true sign of Spring: I open a window. Not wide; the morning has a bite to it. But the sun is up, the sky is clear and I can feel the planet shift toward Spring. And if that weren’t enough, I have proof. There on my calendar, in black and white: March 20, the first day of Spring. Soon, soon.

It has been a long, cold, cold winter. Skies a listless grey, streets a slushy grey. A winter of faithlessness: that Spring would not return and bring with it its palette of blues and golds and splashes of hot pink and Day-glow green. Dabs of purple.

Through the sliver of my window, Springs slips in on a breeze. There! I feel it! The breeze puts its arms around my shoulders and whispers, “Believe in me.”

I lean into it and I say, “I always have.”

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