Ten years ago John decided we needed new windows. Ours is an older house, and the winters are cold in Pennsylvania. Not like the other three places we have lived, in which January means you need a light sweatshirt. I balked at the price, but we got a plan that spread it out over forty eight months, and in the meantime our heating bills went down. Plus we could enjoy the living room without dressing like an Eskimo. 

 

Still John is pretty feisty about windows being left ajar. Now that the days are mild I have been throwing them open without always remembering that they need to close by dusk. He is not a fan of heating the great outdoors. 

 

I am watching a series called Our Planet which has incredible footage of otters, and newts, and wildebeests. The flocks and herds persevere against formidable elements, with no windows I might add. They manage to survive even in the harsh conditions of the arctic, or the plains of Mongolia. Somehow the photographers were in the right place to film the death throes of a leopard and a crocodile. Mountain goats skipping along vertical cliffs. A chase between a tiger and an antelope. A multitude of birds crossing the ocean. 

 

And yet the animals seem to not waste vital energy. The pictures were close enough that I could look into their faces, and there was an absence of those forces that drain me. Resentment. Anger. Worry. It is not as if the deer didn't run for her life. She did. But she did not also succumb to the anxiety that we humans are susceptible to. Even the bears that were grappling for the best fishing spot did not add contempt to their attacks. And when one slunk away I saw no hint of simmering revenge. 

 

It isn't that I hold alligators as my spiritual ideal. But I think I can learn something about not leaving my mental windows open.