on the view from my window

From my desk in my bedroom, I can see the peak of the Hohe Warte. When the day is clear, as today and most days, I can discern the tiny splinter on which is the summit cross, the "Gipfelkreuz".

My rented room is small, perhaps 10 feet by 12 feet, and has no door. I have a curtain to seperate me from the kitchen, and this is plenty. My bed isn't much more than a matress on the floor, and my wardobe is simply a row of hooks on the wall. All of my furniture is cheap, mass produced, and simple. It is all from Ikea. This frustrates me in the same way that not having enough money to be generous frustrates me. My walls are blank, except for one tiny hiking map which names the peak I can see out my window, along with the others in the chain to the north. It is from a fifty year old guidebook, but the peaks don't change.

The Hohe Warte is the furthest and tallest object that I can see from my window. The complete panorama of the "Nordkette" is obstructed and cropped harshly by my window frame and the wall of the neighboring building. The resultant view is three times as tall as it is wide, and is sectioned like a good baroque landscape painting into fore- mid- and backgrounds. The foreground is composed of the neighboring stucco wall, and extends up to the peak of the metal roof of that building. Above this peak is the gentle slope up to the rim of the glacial plateau which girds the valley, finally the craggy rock of the Hohe Warte touches the clear blue sky.

The neighboring building is much like the one in which I live. It is of indeterminate age, and variable disrepair. I would guess it is quite old, but has been renovated several times, and the traces of age are best visible where layers are peeling away. The lintel of a window, for instance, has fallen off, and shows behind it the slowly rotting mortar between the bricks; draws attention to the brown stain on the wall above. I wonder many times if this is a symptom of unstoppable decay, or a sign of shoddy original workmanship. At any rate, it forms be the symbol of death the inevitably shoulders into the late renaissance still lifes. But the eye is drawn upward from this dreary subject by the peak of the red metal roof. In the morning, as the sun slowly advances, there is a curl of steam which drifts up from the crisp line of dark and light, carrying ones eyes up to the plateau.

The hillside is shared by traditional Alpine houses, a church tower, and the crowns of various trees. The houses are stuccoed brick on the lower floors, with the final level being dark stained wood. At this time of year, the geraniums have been exchanged for fir boughs. Every house has a balcony, and the railings are always cut with curling patterns, carefully repeated and uniform. These houses are the works of craftsmen, and at one time were also their homes. Many have frescos on the outside, invisibe from where I sit, but seen on my outings. These frescos depict the trade of the family, and give they houses their names. Various examples I have seen include a tinker sharpening a scythe, a whimsical parade of children carrying the cakes made by the confectioner, or the huge mural of bells in the great house of the bellmaker. Now the houses seem to be almost all inhabited by the wealthy, although to their credit, they seem to do value life in these homes. From my window, I can see laundry drying in the sun. I know that most of the homes have vegetable gardens on the south sides. I know that these hillside inhabitants are often to be found hiking up the mountains out their doors.

The church tower solemnly rings out the hours, with real bells. Listening, with my window open to the cold breeze, I can hear the bell swing in my direction and then swing away. The strong gothic steeple repeats the motif of the peaked roof, and sends the eyes upward. On the crest of the hill stands the frontier of the forest. It is not a strong line in actuality, but it looks like one from here. The spruces and pines are still deep green, but the taller beech trees, larches, and poplars form a bright yellow edge.

Behind these autumn trees the mountainside proper springs upwards. The lower slopes are still sprinkled with yellow larch, but these peter out as the elevation increases. The hillside is steep, and the changes in ecosystems are easily visible. When the fog burned off yesterday, there was a line of snow across the slope which could have been drawn with a ruler. It was almost the exact elevation as the last of the larches. Above that line the trees were frosted luminscently, and the peak a harsh white unity. Today, the snow has melted from the trees and south aspects. Once again, I can see the fading green of the steep high pastures where cows give their milk in summer. On the rock fields too steep for stock, I can see the game trails of the chamois and ibex. They are just faint seams, reminders that the wilderness is up there, hard to get to, hard to see--but there, none the less.

The peak itself is not especially impressive. It is really just a knob where the range bends back away to the West. But still, I wish to climb up there. To visit that spot where a monument has been erected to the savior, pointing, like all the other object outside my window, up. Today a clear blue sky stretches above the cross, last night the cold bright stars swung slowly past. "Himmel" is the German word for both sky and heaven.

While I can see only one mountain from my window, such mountains loom over the city in almost every direction. I have been asked if I think they close in the view. I couldn't help but laugh. These mountains are the veiw. There towering forms a reminder of the smallness of individuals, the pettiness of human pride. They are Creation. They can't help but pull the viewer in, up, away from oneself. For me, they make this city livable. The gravel erosion fields help me accept the decay of the buildings; the organic order and simplicity of the peaks helps me accept the disorder and waste of the urban life.

In an effort to bring this entire view a little closer, I have a simple collection of objects from these same mountains. Pine cones, spruce cones, beech leaves, acorns, chestnuts, beechnuts, walnuts, and stones rest on my wide windowsill. These are beautiful fragments of creation which no human can reproduce. These symmetries, colors, and intricacies remind me to be humble. They remind me to work hard, to love, and to take part in this Creation which surrounds me. They help me look back down, after following the view out my window upwards once more. They are a part of my prayers.