The boy at the window

The world has never had much difficulty getting my attention. A bird beyond a window, a scrap of music, the possibility of a game—any one of them could loosen the hold of a classroom. There was always something happening just outside the lesson.

I was a mischievous child in a pious family. Perhaps that is as good a beginning as any: reverence and restlessness under the same roof. The adults had their ideas about the proper direction of a life. I had an eye on the window.

Music offered one kind of freedom; sport offered another. One invited me to listen, the other to move. Both asked for an attention I could give without being persuaded. Curiosity, when left to itself, has a remarkable appetite.

Beyond the classroom were birds, trees, and the open sky. It would be too tidy to turn every wandering glance into a revelation. Sometimes a boy is simply distracted. Sometimes the distraction is the part he remembers.

Looking back, I am drawn to that window as a place to begin. On one side, the world being explained. On the other, the world inviting me to come and see.