Our house has 4 bedrooms on 2 floors. The top floor is built into the eaves, so the only windows are skylights. When we first thought about buying the house I worried about this (“it doesn’t even have real windows in some of the rooms and I’ll have to stand on tip toes to see out”). I don’t worry about it anymore.
Because the view from one of the skylights is my salvation. You can see it in the photo above, snapped a few weeks ago before the trees had come out, but after the grass had started to turn green. I took this photo in the morning, and the view is lovely then. I look out first thing every morning and take deep breaths and let the sounds of the breeze and the sheep and the curlews wash over me.
But that’s not the magical time. That comes much later when, at the end of a stressful day, mind teeming with work and personal responsibilities, thoughts dancing and flitting, wondering how on earth I am going to cram everything into tomorrow, I go upstairs and open the skylight again.
It’s much quieter at night. The surrounding hills have become dark, barely discernible shapes broken up by the occasional light from a distant house. The sheep have stopped their incessant chatter and laid down to sleep. The birds are silent.
And every night I stand there looking out into that vast darkness, feeling the breeze on my face – or sometimes the wind whipping rain against my skin – and I know that whatever beefs I have with the day, whatever lingering stressors are waiting for me tomorrow, and no matter that it has rained for 3 days solid, that wind against my skin is my wind. Those dark shapes in the distance are my fields. That village down the hill is my village. I am finally home.
I don’t know how long I will have in this house, but however long it is, I don’t think a single night will go by when I don’t stand at that window and count my blessings.