More Than Gray

On a sultry July day, Jon returns home to the third floor of the tall red-bricked apartment on Brecon street, his arm wrapped around a stiff paper bag containing banana bread and pastries. He lives alone, spending his days and nights surrounded by piles: piles of books and newspapers that crowd his desk, piles of dirty dishes that litter the sink. During the day, worn and unworn clothes sit in a lump on his futon bed, which at night is transferred to his desk to make room for his body while he sleeps. 

He is a heavy sleeper, not a noise rousing him through the night. Every morning, he wakes up to the grating, repetitive sound of his alarm clock, his eyes opening wearily to the sight of the off-white plaster ceiling above him, the emptiness in his stomach compelling him to get out of bed. 

On this day, he has decided to get breakfast at Monica’s Coffee and Pastry, the local bakery down the street. He had initially planned to sit inside the store, bringing along a book to read while he would eat his croissant and sip his coffee. But when he got to the counter with his coffee and bread, he changed his mind, asking the young, red-haired cashier to put them in a paper bag.

When he gets home, he sets the paper bag and coffee down onto the round acrylic table, next to his laptop and a clutter of used mugs and plates. His one-bedroom apartment contains little but just enough for himself: a small kitchenette with a stove and sink, a living area with the maroon fabric sofa he had inherited at an auction placed strategically in front of the television, a tiled bathroom with a cramped stall where he takes long, hot showers in the winter. Though he thoroughly enjoys these parts that make up his home, there is one thing that he is uninspired by: the large glass window that encases the living area. Although there is another window in his bedroom where he sleeps, it is tiny and is partially concealed with metal bars. But the living room window seems to be more than five times its size, suffusing his apartment with sunlight throughout the day and granting him views of the world outside, views that neither appeal to nor affect him. 

Every day upon waking up, he watches the view through the window, still and always the same, like a picture frame: the gray sky above, the gray pavement below, the traffic that comes and goes. Sometimes he prefers to draw the blinds over the window, making a routine of this activity when he is depressed. On such days he prefers to brighten the room instead with the fluorescent lamp that sits in the corner of the living room or the overhead light bulbs installed on the ceiling. 

Pushing the clutter of dishes aside, he now makes room for a new plate on which he places a loaf of banana bread. He looks over to the window, the blinds already drawn over them from earlier that day. On his phone, he scrolls through social media, stopping to re-watch a video, sometimes liking a post with his thumb. He finishes his late breakfast quietly, never diverting his eyes from his phone.

The following days pass in a haze, the early mornings quickly molding into evenings, the dark night sky turning into the pale blue of dawn while he sleeps. When he gets off work, he abandons the idea of activity altogether, spending the rest of his evening and night on the sofa looking lazily at his phone or watching television half-asleep. July comes and goes without much notice, the arrival of August introducing hotter, more humid days. 

Aside from going to work, he stays at home, retrieving news and images of the world outside through a screen. The world seems to be coated in gray, offering nothing exciting, nothing new. Yet he continues to peer out of the living room window every morning, and every time, is disappointed by the view, or the lack thereof, that the window provides. He begins to feel no need for it; it only reminds him that the world is a sad and weary place that doesn’t change, neither for the better nor worse.

Late August, the setting sun is sinking further into the sky, streaks of orange trailing behind. Outside is filled with the sounds of children running, laughing, and the noise of traffic, of tires screeching, of people yelling across the street. Inside Jon’s head, the noise prevails, deafening his own thoughts. His head feels hot and swollen with pain. He looks at his arms, the skin slightly red and becoming itchy. The need to be horizontal is suddenly overwhelming, drawing him to his bed and away from the ruckus outside. But in the quiet and safety of his bed, away from the window and the noise, he still feels the turbulence. It's within his body, something he cannot escape. He puts his hand to his forehead and it feels like coal. 

“A hot flash?”

“Yes, that’s most likely what you experienced.” The doctor that sits across from him has gray hair and placidly observes Jon through his wire glasses. The doctor conveys the symptoms of a hot flash, and tells him it’s associated with hormonal changes in the body.

“A lot of women who are going through menopause experience this, but that’s clearly not your case.” He continues. At the end of the appointment, he suggests Jon to perhaps consult a therapist, that it may be linked to the mood swings that he had previously mentioned.

Within a few days he has a session with Dr. Ashley, a licensed therapist whose office is fifteen minutes away from his apartment.

Her office is in a building clad with cement, its dimensions wider than it is tall and the interior even more cavernous than it seems from the outside. Dr. Ashley’s room is brightly lit and smells faintly of lavender, permeating through the air.

Dr. Ashley is a pleasant woman in her late-forties, who takes notes on a yellow pad while Jon speaks and nods affirmingly along to his dialogue. When she asks him what his daily routine consists of, he mentions his work, his co-workers, the friends he keeps in touch with from college.

“Sometimes it’s the little things that we have to pay attention to, like a warm cup of coffee or a walk on a sunny day. Do you like to go on walks?”

“Um… no,” Jon says after a moment of contemplation. “When I get off from work I’m just so tired, I feel too lazy to go on walks.”

“What about on the weekends?”

“I prefer to rest on the weekends too.”

Dr. Ashley brings her thumb to her chin, resting her elbow on the paper pad. “Let’s see if there’s anything that can bring you joy and peace inside your home. Is there anything that you can think of?”

Jon pauses to think, looking past Dr. Ashley’s gaze. “Well, I do have this big window in my living room. I like to look out of it a lot, but the thing is, there’s nothing special about it. It’s all just the same, I might as well be looking at a wall.”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Jon,” Dr. Ashley says. “There’s a lot of things that happen in the world, and looking through a window can be a theurapetic experience even if it feels like there’s nothing special going on.”

She gestures toward the window on the wall adjacent to them. It is small, perhaps the same size as the one in his own bedroom, and offers a partial view of the green treetop slightly concealing the side of the building. “Like, what do you see here?”

“Leaves?” Jon says doubtfully.

“Yes, leaves. And what color are they?”

“Green.”

“That’s right. Now, Jon, you may think that there’s nothing special about leaves being green, but once you notice the small things like this that exist right outside your window, you’ll see how meaningful they all are.” Dr. Ashley encourages Jon to do the same with his own window, promising him that there is more to the world than just gray skies and gray pavements.

The next morning, while he waits for his coffee to brew on the stove, he lingers in front of the window. The view seems to be the same as yesterday as expected; nothing but sky and street. He tries to find something interesting, something different but within minutes gives up, returning to the kitchen to pour his coffee.

In his next session, he recounts this experience to Dr. Ashley, who again urges him to continue, to seek out things that might seem ordinary, things that he may be taking for granted.

Monday morning, Jon stands before the window before leaving for work. Today the sky is more blue than gray and absent of clouds, and on the street below, a man dressed in black approaches a car parked on the curb. Jon thinks back to what Dr. Ashley had said, and watching more closely, sees that the car is of a deep silver color, its surface more matte than metallic.

At work, sitting in front of a computer screen crowded with documents and files, he thinks again of the car. He wonders where the man was headed to, and at one point even speculates the man’s daily routine, fabricating an intricate plot in his head.

The following day, he does the same: he gets dressed, puts his coffee to boil on the stove, and stands before the window. The sky is pale, a few clouds here and there dotting the otherwise empty canvas. Below, a few people are walking on the street, across from which, a woman in a cap emerges from a pharmacy. Suddenly, a cat rushes past the stone pavement, its fur the color of cheddar. Jon watches as the cat paces strategically across the street, as if chasing after something, perhaps a mouse. An amused chuckle escapes him, to his own surprise. 

Day by day, he continues looking through the window, sometimes finding something new to observe, other times trying to find the new in the monotonous. One day, he witnesses a woman emerging from a taxi with a slim bouquet of flowers in her hand, and another day, he sees two school children running across the pavement, their backpacks clinging to their shoulders. On mornings that are particularly gray, he observes the clouds, heavy and threatening to release rain, and he feels the dampness in the air as though he were outside.

Although some days it’s harder to believe than others, he learns that Dr. Ashley was right – that there is something special even in the mundane, if one pays close enough attention. Slowly, he notices more colors in the world; he sees the green of the leaves on the treetops, the rich purple of the balloon flowers that bloom in the summer. The dark navy blazer of the man going to work on a Monday morning. The light brown cup of iced coffee a teenaged boy holds in his hand while crossing the street.

And gradually, an emotion new to Jon accumulates within him: gratitude for the window and for all that brings into his home – the sun, the clouds, the sights, sounds, and colors of the earth. And he feels a deeper, more delicate gratitude for being able to witness them.