Before we leave our India home for the season, we puts grills on all the windows — this house is a house of windows to let the outside in. We have to do this several days before we leave as they take time to install. It always makes me feel like a prisoner inside my own home: the river, the trees, the hills and rocks are all seen through a grid of squares. It strikes me as I write this that when we are imprisoned inside ourselves this is how we see all of life — broken up into bits and pieces, not as the whole it is. I know this of myself, for lately I have molted out of a tight skin and being new, am seeing the world in a light far, far larger than the tight and constricted eyes of my ego.

But I had meant to write of literal, time-bound events — our leaving here tomorrow to go down to the city, cities, and then after a nice holiday, fly back to our other home. Payson had been distraught lately because he hadn’t heard our blue whistling thrush  — with the most lovely, liquid and lyrical of songs — sing for several months. I heard about it practically every day but he wasn’t consoled by my explanation that the bird had a singing block. But this morning he heard it! I didn’t, being half deaf without my hearing aids in the morning, but seeing his joy was enough for me. We can leave happily!

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