Between the lines

Tal and I are living in a construction zone. Doors -- four of them -- are being widened. A garden tub and shower stall are becoming a generous roll-in shower. The bedroom, now thickly carpeted, will soon be smooth hardwood.

Demolition has passed. The builder is in the putting-it-all-back-together phase. Everyone -- the various workers as well as us homeowners -- is cheerful.

Tal and I are staying in the guest room where neither of us has spent any time in the two years we have lived in this house. I clean it between guests. That's all.

For me, staying in that room, especially waking up in that room, is like living in a different house. The master bedroom windows look out onto the terrace and our neighbor's screened porch. The guest room is upstairs (tricky for Tal, I'm sad to say) has a lovely set of double windows facing east. 

I am taken by the light play in that room and find myself climbing the stairs simply to see what it's doing at various times of day.  Take a look.

The wall opposite the windows at 7:30 in the morning.

The blinds closed to the hot morning sun at 10:45

Straight on at 5:00 in the afternoon

I'm only slightly tempted to get preachy here.  I could write about reading between the lines, about what we see depending largely on our angle of view, about taking in the whole picture -- or not, about the patterns we play out through our lives, about truth or untruth seeping into consciousness. 

I'd rather leave our construction zone as is this afternoon.  I'd rather take the photographs at face value.  I'd rather simply let what this set of blinds reveals at different times of day be.