Since I've set up my "distance learning" office in half of Lily's (tiny!) playroom, I spend a lot of time in front of a window that looks out onto the trees and path behind our townhouse. This afternoon, one of our cats ("Little") is stretched out in the windowsill, enjoying the breeze and the fluttering leaves falling. People are strolling by with dogs and children, interspersed with the occasional runner or bicyclist. By all accounts, it could be any lovely spring afternoon--not one in this crazy new reality in which we live.
Sometimes, I miss my old window very much, even though it didn't look into the outside world. That window looked from my office at school into the students' main gathering space. From there, I'd lift my head from a troublesome parent email to smile at students laughing at someone's joke, or I'd find myself weighed down by academic matters only to glance a football sailing by (which always warranted a knock on the window to remind the students to take projectiles outside). I miss my students deeply.
These days, it's easy to halt my gaze before I even get to my actual window to the outside. Instead, the three windows directly in front of me become a metaphor for the juggling schedules we're managing daily: my email on one, the spreadsheet I'm balancing with course sectioning on the second, and Lily's reading video on the third. It's not unusual to find myself observing a math class while helping Lily fill in her hundreds chart or responding to a senior's essay while helping Lily understand how she can use "why" and "because" to make her opinion writing stronger.
But our virtual windows also give us a wider point of view. We have family Zoom calls with friends in Wales and Germany--at times when none of us ever would have all been home before. We have happy hours with friends after little ones are in bed and virtual playdates that result in raucous laughter rolling out of Lily's room as she pretend plays through a phone screen. More than anything, these windows give us connections, reminding us of the importance of a world outside our walls.
As they have for so much of my life, books become our windows, too. As Lily's ability to read grows, we often find her tucked under her bed, quietly sounding out words and using pictures to help her figure out the trickiest ones. And she finally loves chapter books, too--which is such a joy for me as my memories of my mom and dad reading chapter books to me are some of my favorites. After finishing the first book of Harry Potter, we've moved on to Dragon in the Library, a book which allows the protagonist, Kit, to travel into different magical lands through the vehicles of books. (Serious meta!)
On the best days, we leap out of our windows, beyond their confines, into the world that still exists beyond them. We take class lessons outside (thanks to Lily's brilliant and creative kindergarten teachers) and learn skip counting by literally skipping as we count or practice addition by stomping through puddles in the rain.
We race to find the unknown--whether that's a winding path to a river or a splashy kayak trip through a bay. With the understanding that windows will keep us in if we don't force them open, we push with all our might against them and breathe deeply when the fresh air enters our lungs.
Our windows lead us into worlds as small a puzzle and as big as an alley full of murals, as simple as learning lowercase letters and as complicated as maintaining social distance while erratically flying a kite. Most importantly, our windows do not confine us; they become our vehicles to new worlds and experiences.
Who knows what tomorrow's window will bring?
