Flashback

Among the events lost in the start-and-stop non-rhythm of my writing here over the last few years was a significant anniversary–or, more accurately, three of them: the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth anniversaries of this website’s existence.  

I launched Between Urban and Wild as an author landing page in November of 2013. Between Urban and Wild the book had been released on November 1st, to zero fanfare. My father-in-law had died in New Jersey on October 31st, and I was preoccupied with loss and the distance between me and my husband–although, truth be told, the timing may have been a relief. I no doubt felt justified in stepping away from the dreaded prospect of book promotion.

I would eventually discover that meeting people at bookstore readings, library events, and book clubs delivered pleasures that tempered the terror of standing in front of groups of strangers, but as a confirmed introvert with reclusive tendencies, the at-a-distance quality of online publishing remains appealing. 

I’m sure I pressed the “Publish” button for that first blog post with more dread in my heart than anything else, at least initially. I was supposed to do this thing to help better my book’s chances of finding an audience. The relief at having taken the first step was likely swamped by the anxiety that I would mess something up.  

I had no clue what I was doing. That first post had no images, no tags, no links. I had no email subscribers, and the only readers I knew of were the coerced: immediate family and close friends. Over time, I “met” some of my readers via comments, and I discovered that I liked pulling together short essays and putting them out in the world. Publishing these days is a cruel sport, and the sense of control these pages have given me is part of what’s kept me writing these past twelve-plus years. I love, too, that I can continue to explore the idea at the core of BUW the book: how we discover where we are in the world. 

As I pursue a reset, I thought I’d circle back to the little reflection that started it all. I’ve added images, edited lightly (because I can’t help myself), and tagged the content.

I don’t say it enough, but it’s always on my mind when I press that “Publish” button: thank you for reading.

Kitchen windows, blinds open. You never know who’s out there, looking in.

Drawing the Blinds

Originally published November 7, 2013

The seasons’ slow cycling brings changes in the weather and the angle of the sun, along with shifts in the routines of daily life. On this high ridge in central Colorado, as in many other parts of the northern hemisphere, late fall brings the chance of snow (along with shoveling) and fires in the fireplace (along with hauling firewood). Since we don’t have large stands of deciduous trees delivering their autumnal yield of fallen leaves, there’s not much raking to be done, making fall more of a spectator sport: we watch the shifting hues of the grasses as they redden or turn tawny or bronze on the hillsides. Groves of aspen flare yellow from their nooks in north-facing drainages, and the dark green puddles of scrub oak on the hillsides turn russet and then quickly fade to brown.

But there are changes inside, too, and not just the earlier switching-on of lights or the aforementioned fires in the fireplace. Since we built our house to take advantage of southern exposures for passive solar gain, there are seasonal patterns to operating the cellular blinds on the windows. This time of year, I’m diligent about making a round in the evening to close them all. The next morning, the process is reversed, albeit in a more fragmented fashion, since I open them as the sun hits the respective walls: eastern windows first, southern windows a bit later, west-facing last. On days that are cloudy or snowy, I leave the blinds closed save for those on a couple of windows where I’m likely to pause and look out as I’m passing by.

In summer, the pattern reverses, more or less. Blinds on the west and south get closed during the day to keep the sun from blaring in and overheating the house. At night, they’re all reeled fully up so we can throw open the windows and usher in the cool air of mountain nights.

A green(ish) vista, from June 2016, through the north-facing window that’s behind my head when I work at my computer (blinds open, of course; the view is not as good with blinds closed).

Winter visitors sometimes snicker when I start the evening round of closing. “What, are you afraid the neighbors will see in?” they ask, giggling. The joke is that the nearest house with a line of sight into any of our windows is more than a mile away.

For me, privacy doesn’t really enter into the equation. In my mind, the window blinds are part of the climate control system for the house. They’re a tool in keeping it warmer in winter and cooler in summer. The daily rounds of raising and lowering are tiny steps toward improved energy efficiency.

That’s the practical aspect. There’s a philosophical component of this chore, too. We tend to draw a clear line between indoors and out, and we call those lines walls. Windows introduce a degree of fuzziness, providing apertures that usher something of the outdoors in (and, on the note of privacy, can also provide a peep show of the events going on inside). Regardless of what’s on my schedule for the day, the small ritual of opening and closing the blinds draws my attention outside for a few minutes a few times a day. I might be preoccupied with a work project or scurrying to get ready to run errands in town, but those interludes of tugging on or releasing the cords on the blinds draw my focus, if only briefly, away from my to-do list and the interior chatter that my brain is inclined toward. I enjoy the sense that I’m responding to the conditions of my environment, appreciate this element of interaction between the house and its setting. Even when commitments or an inclination to hunker down keep me indoors, I’m glad for the excuse to peek outside and be reminded of where, exactly, I live.

The view out the windows in the stairwell on the morning of February 27, 2026. The south-facing blind is open, the one on the west-facing window is still closed. The draft of this post is up on my computer screen. Now you know what I can see when I glance up from the screen while working on my dispatches.