Maria Arozamena
I’ll take the window seat whenever I can and get lost watching the world.
Windows are a powerful lens. They’re a quiet invitation to a small patch of the world — arbitrarily framed — from which we are physically isolated.
Whether leaning against the ledge, hands pressed, fingers splayed against the glass, or absentmindedly peering at a distance from the readings tossed on your desk, you have no control over what you will see.
The only thing you can do is look.
Gazing long enough, you’re forced to imagine a touch of drama out of whatever appears. The most mundane of things inevitably become intriguing.
A lone bicycle leans against a rack, waiting for its rider, its tires slick with dew; trees twist and sway to the breeze, premiering new wordless ballets each day; cascading raindrops make the puddles boil, promising warmth where there is none.
These scenes are tastes of a world beyond four walls. Through windows, we catch fleeting glimpses of the world past our immediate focus — while we study, write papers or simply sit in quiet reflection, nursing a cup of coffee.
Looking out a window — it’s an intimate escape, a chance to reflect while blessed with the epiphany that there is so much more out there than there is in the confined reality here.
My favorite windows have always been the ones that offer a balance between familiarity and the unexpected: a view grounded in routine, with just enough change so I feel like I’m seeing something new each time. They offer views that, at first glance, might seem ordinary, but to someone who’s spent hours behind them, reveal layers of life — both small and profound.
My dorm room window
The curtains are always tied back. 7 a.m., the rays of sunlight filtering through golden leaves compete with my alarm to rouse me first. While the never-ending noise of sirens and shouting has deterred me from looking out over Chapel Street for longer, the glimpses I get from my lofted bed are always welcome.
There’s the usual programming: pigeons and squirrels roaming over branches, putting on little passion plays for me; cars piling up at the stoplight honking as if time would listen and hasten for them; the tantalizing husk of the closed-down Chipotle in the periphery of my vision.
Looking out the window on the fifth floor of Bingham’s tower, looming over Old Campus, I have to admit that I’ve felt a bit like Rapunzel at times, imprisoned by my impending midterms as I gaze out day by day at the crowds of people making their way back from the night’s revelry.
Trumbull library
Trumbull’s windows are distinctly old — their frames are slightly warped with age, and the glass has a faint, wavy distortion. The ceiling-high windows of the library are on the second floor, where the chaos of the first floor’s dining hall fades into hushed concentration. It faces out toward the quaint courtyard, offering a perfect view into the heart of my college.
From here, you can watch the rhythm of student life as it unfolds. Familiar faces cluster on the grass or in scattered red lawn chairs, chatting and studying, their laptops propped up on their knees. Trees line the courtyard, burning with oranges and reds, their fallen leaves dotting the perfectly manicured lawn.
At night, peering into the darkness from one of the library desks, the light of a phone screen — not at all dimmed by the thickly frosted glass — can be spotted from the hammocks as someone calls home.
On occasion, the library is empty and loneliness creeps in, but the window always reminds me of the family I have just outside.
Yale Law School library door
Not quite your standard window, but the sidelights on the doors of the Yale Law School Library are a personal favorite of mine. Every week, I pass by the windows countless times while running errands at the law school. They’re quite small, paling in comparison to the iconic swathes of stained glass lining the library, but I love them.
Fun Fact: Bill Clinton first saw Hillary Clinton through those very windows, and immediately ran out the doors to talk to her.
Another fun fact: I learned that fact on my first day at Yale and was told that if I worked at the law school long enough, I too would “find my Bill.”
Now, I’m not looking for love at the law school, but the windows on those doors are a reminder of how close the people who mean the world to me could be — they could be the people I see every day without notice, and who I catch glances of through windows, all momentarily out of reach.
That’s the power of windows. They invite us to transfix on the world from a slight distance, perhaps even through rose-colored lenses, where life is framed but never fully captured. Perhaps that’s why they’re so compelling — because they invite us to pause and take in the view, to notice the subtle shifts, new faces and changing details in a place that we think we already know.