I just climbed into bed, way too late, I realize. Dressed in my U2 T-shirt and Curious George boxer shorts, I couldn’t be much more comfortable than I am right now. My body melts into the sheets. I should sleep, but I’m enthralled with my window. At 1:30 in the morning I can’t see anything outside, but even during the day, the view would only offer the backsides of several nondescript two-story houses. Anyway, it’s not the sight that entices me. It’s the sounds.
The softest mist imaginable is falling outside my open window. Even with all the miserable rain we’ve endured ever since the ice melted this Winter, I can’t resent this gentle shower. It sounds so fragile I’m afraid a whisper might shatter it. If I listen lovingly, I can hear underneath the rain the sounds of air conditioners humming, a dog barking in the distance, and a bullfrog croaking. It’s a paradise of nature in the midst suburbia, if only I can close my eyes or be blindfolded by a moonless night.
It’s a symphony.
I wonder how many windows are open in my subdivision tonight. Few, I’d wager. It’s a waste of money when the A.C.’s running, and the windowsill might get wet. But what a small price that seems in exchange for this concerto! It makes me wonder how many such symphonies I miss simply because I’m not listening. Perhaps much of our happiness in this life depends upon our willingness to listen for it.
I’ll be sleeping with my windows open more often.