Thoughts on Life’s Small Windows
There are moments in life that open like small windows. They're brief, fleeting, and rare. Last night I sat on our porch, and it was a perfect summer night. Warm air drifting across the porch, a candle flickering. It was quiet except for the crickets stitching their rhythm into the night air. It was a cloudless sky, and you look up and you see the stars. For a little while, everything settles into place, and all you can do is try and take it all in. These moments don’t come often. Maybe once a year if you're lucky. And when they do, you realize you don’t want them to end. But the fact is that these moments are impermanent. They don't last, and there's no guarantee that they'll ever happen again.
The older we get, the more we understand how limited these windows are. When we’re young and dumb, summer nights feel endless, and you believe that they'll always be there for you. When we're young, we don’t appreciate how many more nights like this we’ll get, or whether they’ll feel the same again. But the truth is, they don’t come around nearly as often as we think. If we consider my example from last night, the weather has to cooperate. Life has to slow down long enough so we have the time to just sit. We have to be in the right headspace to actually notice and appreciate it all. Maybe it's just cloudy, or the neighbor's dog is barking for hours. Perfect moments are fragile, and the timing has to be just right. Sometimes you miss them altogether, distracted or too busy to step outside and notice.
The scarcity is what gives them their weight. Knowing they will close makes us hold them tighter, breathe them in, stay a little longer. The candle burns lower. The night air cools. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy. You linger, knowing this is one of those small windows and you won’t see it again until next year—or maybe longer.
It’s not just the weather or the season. It’s people, too. A simple family dinner with everyone present. Your son asking if you’ll play a board game. A teenager sitting down beside you unexpectedly to share something about their day. A holiday where your parents are able to be with the whole family for dinner. A hug when your mom leaves. I kiss from your daughter on the head before bed. These moments are windows as well. They don’t stay open forever. Parents age. Children grow. Their lives expand outward. Friends, college, work, travel, and new responsibilities take up the space where small, everyday connections used to be.
When you’re younger, you think these moments will always be there for you. The conversations will always keep happening, one more game of catch, one more vacation together. But eventually you notice the pattern: the windows open less often, or they suddenly stop altogether. Like the window slammed shut and locked. And when they do, you miss the view that you suddenly realize that you may have taken for granted.
It’s the same with friends. Maybe you have a night where everyone’s schedules align and you sit around a table laughing so hard you forget what time it is. You walk away glowing, promising to do it again soon. But the truth is, the conditions for those windows are rare, too. Months, even years, can pass before it opens again. Many times it just never does.
The temptation is to mourn their scarcity, to wish they lasted longer or came around more often. But maybe that’s the point. If they were common, we wouldn’t notice. If we could step into them anytime, they wouldn’t hold the same power. What makes a warm summer night sacred is its rarity. What makes a moment with your kids priceless is not just the time spent, but the knowledge that it may not be repeated.
I often think about how many of these windows I have left. Not in a morbid way, but in an honest way. If I get one or two perfect summer nights a year, how many summers do I have left? Twenty? Thirty, if I’m fortunate? That’s not an endless number. It’s finite, countable. The thought makes me want to intentionally sit there by the candle just a little longer and soak it all in. For me, this is the takeaway. These moments are precious, and we need to slow down and notice. We need to slow down and soak up these moments like a sponge. The reality is that they can't last. But if we notice and appreciate them, the feeling will last forever in our minds.
We can’t force life's windows to open, but we can be ready when they do. We can live in such a way that when the conditions align, when the weather is right, when the family is together, when something truly special is happening, we actually notice. We don’t rush past. We don’t say “maybe next time.” We stop, breathe deeply, and let the moment soak into our minds and our bones.
As I get older, I've learned this simple truth. Impermanence is what teaches us to see, feel, live, and remember more deeply. This is the greatest gift. I'm not old yet, but I'm not young either. I'm grateful that I've learned this lesson now at this stage of my life instead of at the end. For me, I know that these windows are closing and there's nothing I can do about it. The thing to notice in the future is that there will be new windows opening. My kids may not be home for dinner, and the conditions might not be quite right for sitting on the porch on a summer night. But there will be new windows that are always opening. A child's college graduation or their wedding. A weekend trip with friends. Your son's first day working his dream job. Travel to another country with your spouse. A great dinner experience. A cold winter day by the fire. A great concert. An unexpected call or visitor.
The trick is to intentionally take it all in. That way, you don't have to fear or mourn the loss. It will always be with you. In fact, since the reality is that all things are impermanent, we must not fear or mourn. There's no place for that because we can't actually get these things back. All we can do is take it all in so we can remember it deeply. Then look forward and be grateful for the next window that will open before us.
