There’s a world outside the window. It’s grey, and snowing. The trees are bare, and small birds are flitting from the fence to the feeder, looking for the tiniest bit of seed.
And here I sit inside, warm, and apart. I am divorced from this nature outside. I feel none of the breezes that move the branches, or that blow the snowflakes across my view. I cannot hear the birds chirping in their quest for food.
I feel nothing but a calm detachment, observing what is happening outside. It is no part of me, and I am no part of it. It is alive, and moving. I am – not dead – but existing in this artificial environment.
I keep watch for the stray cat that comes to our back door, looking for food. When he arrives, I will open the door, and take out some fresh water and moist food to go with his kibble. And I will feel the cold wind, and hear the wings of the birds all flying away in fear. The squirrels will run away, as if I were going to attack them.
And I will be bemused, knowing that I mean no harm, and wondering that they have not yet learned this.
Then I will come back inside, to my non-feeling existence, to watch once more.
It is a daily ritual. They do not learn to welcome me. And I do not learn to feel, to participate, rather than to observe.