A few years ago I opened the blind on a window in my house. I looked out and, now and then, someone would look in. Before lunch the sun would shine through the window, warming a patch of the cold linoleum floor. Like a dog I sat basking in the light. It was good.

I opened the blinds on the windows in other rooms in my house, leaving each room a porthole to the sun. Through them I saw the birds in the trees and through them the neighbors could see me seeing them and we would wave as if our eyes happened to meet by chance. Then we would return to our work and play. It was good.

I went through my house and opened the blinds on all of the windows in every room—tore them open. Beams of light shot into my house, Swiss-cheesing it like bullets riddling their paper target or laser motion detectors in a Saturday morning cartoon museum. Downy tufts of grass sprouted in the kitchen where the sunlight struck the floor, then in my bedroom, then in the living room, the vacant guestroom. It was good. Continue reading