In a few weeks I’ll tape shut the last of my book boxes and say good-bye to this view. It is not a sad move by any means—I am immeasurably excited for all the things to come (as well as settling into a new corner with a new view), but as I write my final few sentences in this space I’m realizing just how much time I’ve spent in this particular spot in the past year and how in many ways this desk tucked beneath the window has been my home in this city. It is in this spot that I researched and wrote a thesis in six months time, read books that left a mental mark on me (and ones that I’ll never think of again), rediscovered how much I enjoy painting, and ate all my meals. It is in this spot that I have watched the leaves fall away and then regrow into a wall of ivy that moves in ripples akin to water waves in the wind, and where I’ve watched the light change from buttercup, to amber, to rose during the golden hour.
A couple nights ago I was reminded of a series the New York Times did a few years ago called “Windows on the World” in which writers would detail the view from their windows, and an artist would create a sketch of what they described. There is something poetically communal to me that so many writers tend to position their windows in a space next to windows—a space in which they can watch the world move around them, while they themselves are weaving worlds on paper or screens. In the past year I feel like I’ve begun to join that community, and as I pack up my paintbrushes and pens I do so looking forward to seeing how my writing, and my own narrative, will continue to unfold in the new corner next to a window that I will nestle my desk into.