Sitting by a window

A quiet talk for the evening: we sit by a window together, let the jaw and shoulders soften, and take one long breath out.

Hello. Come and sit with me a moment… by a window, if there’s one nearby.

This is the quiet part of the evening. The part where nothing is asked of you. You don’t have to follow anything perfectly. You can just listen, and let your body do what it already knows how to do.

If you can, find a window. It doesn’t have to be a beautiful one. A kitchen window will do. A bedroom window with the curtain half drawn. The window by the front door, where the porch light is.

Sit down near it. Not standing. Sitting. Let the chair or the sofa or the floor take your weight… all of it.

And then, when you’re settled, let your eyes go to the glass. Not through it, particularly. Just to it. The pane. The frame. The small reflection of the room you’re sitting in.

That’s all we’re doing tonight. Sitting by a window. Letting the day finish.

The moment I’m thinking of is this one.

It’s late. The kitchen is finally quiet. The plates are stacked, or maybe they aren’t — maybe they’re still in the sink and you’ve decided they can wait. The overhead light is off, and the only light is the one above the street, or the moon, or nothing at all.

You find yourself standing at the window. Not looking for anything. Just looking.

There’s a car going past, two streets over. A neighbour’s window, blue with television. A tree moving in a way that tells you there’s wind you can’t feel from in here.

And for a moment — just a moment — you’re not behind on anything. You’re not late for anything. You’re not the person who has to sort it all out before bed.

You’re just someone at a window. Watching the evening be the evening.

Or maybe your moment is different. Maybe it’s three in the morning, and you’re awake, and you’ve given up on the ceiling. So you’ve come to the window instead, and the street outside is completely empty, and the whole world feels like it’s breathing slowly without you, and somehow that’s a comfort.

Or it’s the drive home, and you’ve pulled into the driveway, and you haven’t gone in yet. The engine off. The windshield like a window. The house in front of you, lit up, waiting.

Whatever your window is… we’re going to sit there together for a few minutes now.

So. Let’s begin with the jaw.

Let your teeth come apart, just slightly. Not open-mouthed. Just… not touching. Let the tongue rest low in your mouth. Let the muscles at the corners of your jaw go slack.

You might notice you were holding something there. Most of us are, by this hour. That’s alright. You can let it go now.

And the shoulders. Let them drop. Not by pushing them down — just by stopping the holding-up. Let them be heavy. Let them belong to the chair.

Let your hands open. If they’re in your lap, turn the palms up, and let the fingers curl a little, the way they do when they’re not doing anything.

Now your eyes. Let them soften on the glass. You don’t have to focus on anything in particular. Let the window be a little blurry. Let the room behind you be a little blurry too.

And now, one long breath out.

Breathe in through your nose, easy, no effort… and then let it go out slowly, longer than it came in. Let the out-breath be the long one. Let your shoulders fall a little further on the way out.

Again. In… and out, slow. Let the breath leave you the way the day is leaving.

One more. In… and a long, unhurried out. And when it’s finished, don’t take the next breath straight away. Let there be a small gap. A little rest at the bottom.

Good. Now just sit. Look at the glass. Let the outside be outside. Let the inside be still.

Nothing to do now. Just this. The window, and you, and the quiet evening between you.

There is a reason a window helps. When you sit like this, your eyes go out and away. Past the glass. To the rain, or the streetlight, or the shape of the dark. And your eyes resting far away tells the rest of you something simple. That there is nothing close to watch. Nothing to reach for. Nothing to fix.

Many people find that the eyes lead the body. When you stare at something near — a screen, a page, a face — you lean in a little. Shoulders come forward. Jaw sets. When you look far off, the leaning stops. The shoulders drift back on their own. You don’t have to tell them to. The eyes did it.

And the window gives your attention somewhere gentle to live. Not on your thoughts, going round. Not on the clock. On the rain, moving and not asking anything of you. It can help to have one soft thing to look at while the day drains out of you. The glass holds it, so you don’t have to.

That’s all this is. Not a lesson. Just a place to put your eyes, so the rest of you can let go.

Now. A small practice. For tonight, or tomorrow, whenever you find a window.

Find one. Any window will do. The kitchen one, at nine, when the dishes are done and the house is quiet. The car, pulled up outside the house before you go in, engine off, rain on the windscreen. Or the bedroom window, at three in the morning, when the ceiling has stopped being interesting.

Stand or sit where you can see out. Let your eyes go past the glass. To whatever is out there. A street. A tree. The dark with one light in it. Don’t look at anything in particular. Let your gaze be soft and far.

Now let your shoulders drop, just a little, like a coat sliding off. And unclench your jaw. Let your teeth part. Let your tongue rest.

And breathe out. Longer than the breath in. Out… slow… all the way to the end.

Stay here for a moment. Eyes far. Shoulders low. Jaw soft. Let the rain do what it does. Let the window hold the outside, and let it hold you too, on this side of the glass.

When you’re ready to move on, take the window with you. You don’t need the glass. Just the far look, the low shoulders, the long breath out. You can find that at a red light. In a doorway. In the kitchen at nine.

And now, slowly, come back. Feel your feet. Feel the floor under them. Feel the weight of you, sitting or standing, held up by the ground.

Let your eyes come back to what’s near. To your hands. To the room. The window is still there. The rain is still falling. And you are here, a little quieter than you were.

That’s all for tonight. Leave the sound on, if you like. Whenever you’re ready, come back to the room.