The Art of Opening Windows in Winter.
Coarsened and desensitised by the prevailing cold winds and the turgid, dirty skies, ushered in by January’s bitter hand. I find myself enclosed and hermitised, with a drooping watery gaze, fixed on some wayward dream of the past. When out of this sombre half-life strolls a warm sunny day. Baffled and incredulous, the offering is left on the table, disregarded as yet another mocking torment, conjured up by a cackling old trickster. I’ve experienced enough to recognise the duplicity in such acts; I’m the mackerel that went hungry, lurking down in the cold depths, away from the proffered worm. I remain huddled in the corner of this broken-down old settee.
The light refracts off the condensation curving up the window, a million scintillating jewelled facets dance jovially across the damp surface. I stubbornly adopt a haughty cavalier attitude, sip my coffee and shield my eyes behind an old newspaper. Soon, however, I feel a vague warmth envelop my body, a sensation of happier times; this development unsettles me. Life seems to be stirring in my inanimate frame, opening its sleepy eyes and shaking the dreams from its dozy head. Through an absurd affected habit, I look at my watch realising we’re still wading through March. What is this nonsense? Surely we have another two months of abject misery to endure, before there is the slightest consideration of letting the outside in. This said, all the clues are here; blue sky, dazzling sunshine and an alien feeling of wellbeing. I am not one to argue with science, but then the facts seem preposterous.
“alright” I say, with a cynical frown. “lets play this one out a little”.
Approaching the window with stealth worthy of Jack Bauer, I form a plan and a contingency plan and perhaps yet another for good measure. I know this action is totally foolhardy, but in amongst the apprehension, generated through commonsense, is an unexpected emotion, an homogenous emotion, an incongruous emotion. “Excitement” would appear to be bubble timidly to the surface, like the early indications of tomato soup coming to the boil. Throwing cautions to the wind, I take command and wrench this reluctant window open. The frame squeals as it rips away the effects of the winter’s atrophy. The hinges howl with a primordial outburst, as the door flies open, on to this uncharted hinterland, this feared beyond. Immediately a wall of warm, fresh air erupts into the cold, stagnant recesses of my interior and with an instant return of enthusiasm and effervescence, I grip the ledge. Refraining, yet cheerfully aware of my natural impulse for defenestration, to join this nascent utopia, to cleanse myself of the miasma of my dark confinement. What a day, indeed.
Through this pioneering act of opening windows, the flat comes to life. Winter’s nefarious scheme to drag us down into its icy clutches failed gloriously, as the resuscitating breeze sweeps away the deluge of illness and discontent. This should be our New Year’s celebration, our moment of renewed hope, our time for a fresh start. Sunlight changes everything; colours become radiant, sensation become pleasurable and conversations, yet piping hot full of nonsense, begin to chirp like the birds outside my window. Nothing could mar the genuine convalescing properties of these remarkable conditions, nature has rewarded the harsh annual struggle with this gift of effulgence and it makes perfect sense to embrace this situation with an open window.
Be that as it may, there is a dull red warning light, flashing quietly below the surface, an unwelcome reminder of the wider reality, a voice of reason emanating from these eyes of chipped granite. Its one thing to appreciate the beauty of a waterfall, its quite another to chuck yourself in. So the situation is this. Take full advantage of the rejuvenating qualities of this unexpected treat, but be sure to appreciate the danger lurking beneath the surface. The one guarantee we have with a sunny day, is that its lush, diaphanous texture will eventually corrupt and harden and fall in on itself, making way for its Dionysian counterpart. The wayward sibling, with her wicked grin and dark cloak – made from a fabric of the past. The air that flooded through our open window, breathing life to our hollow frames, will soon revert back to its callous iniquity. This joyful pet which bounded into our hearts with such good feeling and alacrity will soon turn feral and savage; its teeth bared, ready to pounce.
Alas, this happens. One cannot wage war against the waves, certainly not and win. Things live and then die. These diametric oppositions depend solely on each other. However, excepting such a fate does allow for consolation, a room for humble manoeuvre. The art of opening windows in winter, in fact relies on knowing when to close them again.