I use the view from my living room window as a marker of the seasons and a means of finding peace. I don’t live in a country idyll, or by the sea, but on a relatively busy, densely populated street in London. Yet my view brings me inspiration and a sense of comfort nonetheless. As I write this, the tree closet to my window, temptingly touching distance if I dared to reach outside, has in the past couple of days sprouted powder pink and white blossoms to accompany its fledgling green leaves.
I was struggling to concentrate on a piece of work last week, so I got up and as if by magic, I found myself kneeling on the sofa that backs onto the wall of my living room window, elbows propped up on the back with my head cradled in my hands, staring out at the view. What prompted me to do this? Not magic, but something familiar. This action instantly took me back to childhood memories of me doing exactly the same.
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