A Chat from My Little Window

A chat on the Importance of Slowing down and remembering that your life is beautiful and good and worth living.

by fourth year Jordyn Faucette

Let me tell you a story. Let me tell you about dozens of papers, a million readings, and an academic in the making. Let me tell you about my reading chair.

Sometimes, when I forget about the sky and the grass and the leaves, and I spend too much time reading the news, I forget that I live the very best life. I forget that my education is a privilege, I forget that my piles of reading, CiceroPlatoMachiavelliMarxVirgilMiltonTolstoyMalory, are not a burden, but a reward.

I forget this often. I walk into my apartment, an apartment decorated by my friends, that smells like burnt coffee and cinnamon, and I have the audacity to forget. I walk into my room, cluttered by “i love you” sticky notes, my kitten’s toys, stolen t-shirts, and coffee mugs - half tea half late night prayers, and I forget. I forget that I am surrounded by things to love, things to cherish.

Most days, I come home, I sit into my reading chair, a soft sinkable grey cube, and I pout. I promise myself I’ll wait just until the kettle whistles, just until my dinner is done reheating, just until I’ve rested and I’ll do my work. I promise. I swear.

I sit in my reading chair and I feel so sorry for myself, feel so defeated, feel so overwhelmed.

But sometimes, I get lucky. Sometimes I come home and I sit in my chair, and while I wait on the kettle I will look out the window. And I’ll see it.

Sometimes it is my kitten, curled up on the window seal. Sometimes it is a pile of golden leaves covering every inch of green. Sometimes it is a ray of sunshine peeking through the trees. Sometimes it is a pair of squirrels chasing one another. Sometimes, it is the rain drops.

I see something that makes me stop, that pushes politics and money and grades from my mind. I see something that makes me remember that I am not alive to work everyday of my life “for a better tomorrow,” that my mother did not labor 36 hard hours for her daughter to live a joyless life. I forget that it genuinely does not have to be awful. It can be hard and it can be scary and it can suck, but no matter how bad it gets, how far we descend, how much we lose, and how terrified we become, there is something beautiful to be seen and something warm to be felt.

Sometimes I get lucky, and I remember that being alive is good, it is warm and full and sweet and worth savoring.