Headlights

I live in an old Gothic style hotel conversion in Seattle. The lobby looks like it still lives in the 1930s and my 8th floor apartment is adorned with french doors, parquet floors and ten windows. The view of the university and surrounding streets is magnificent and it changes by season. In the fall, I'm continually floored by the expanse of reds and golds and oranges. In the winter, after the leaves shed from the trees, I can catch glimpses of Lake Washington and the Cascades. And the spring and summer are majestic.

But my favorite view from these windows comes after sunset. The top half of the windows are pitch black from darkness. But the bottom half are my own personal Christmas light show. As cars honk their way down 45th Ave, their headlights and tail lights flicker through the trees, creating a glittery effect that resembles twinkle lights. These flashes remind me of two things: the constant movement of the world and the need for perspective. Even though I live alone, these movements are my companions in a way. They remind me that people and places and things are continually making left turns, fluid to the rules and boundaries they pass. They remind me that there are worthy destinations. And they give proof of the simultaneity of the world. What is the driver in the teal Saturn worrying about as I sit staring at Hugh Laurie on House? What must my brother be doing as I mentally yell at my students while grading papers? How many other people are cooking bread pudding at exactly the same time as I am? There are so many maneuvers in the same moment. I'm just one peon with one set of worries and one set of problems, no bigger or smaller than the flashing lights. I love staring out of these windows.