from Carol in Cambodia
Having two large windows is indeed a gift from God. It makes mornings brighter, inspiring me to rise and welcome the sunshine. This is where I catch a glimpse not only of myself but of others. A window is like a doorway between our private world and the outside one – between being alone and being with others, between quiet reflection and active living. I realize that the window is not passive. It shapes how I see, how I feel, and how I connect with God and with others.
Through my window, I witness the ordinary and lively moments of my neighbor’s lives – children playing, women swapping stories, some selling and others buying, motorcycles and bicycles whizzing past, and the quiet routines that weave together the rhythm of our shared world. This seemingly ordinary structure allows me to observe without being seen, to witness without participating. Yet even in this distance, I feel connected. The window teaches me empathy: that others carry stories, joys, and burdens I may never know, yet I can still honor their presence. And this is true with the women in the community.
I find it amazing how women take care of their children or grandchildren. I occasionally become impatient and lose energy when kids play in my small area but somehow these women maintain their enthusiasm and dedication. What keeps them going? Despite multiple responsibilities they manage to carry on. Sometimes without recognition and observable outcomes. Observing them through my window increases my appreciation for their everyday struggles. However, most of what they do – maintaining family life, fostering relationships with neighbors and relatives, and celebrating significant occasions – remains unseen, unrecognized.
What I observe, see and hear challenges me to see beyond the surface. There are nuances that I do not see. There are more questions than answers. The window humbles me into accepting that there are things I do not understand. Rather than demand an answer, I have to embrace the ambiguity of life and remember that clarity is rare. I never grasp the whole truth at once. Things only become clearer when I cross the boundary and step out of my private world behind the window. Then the window becomes a “kairos” (Greek word for divine appointment or opportune time) to engage with my neighbors.
There is also longing in the window. Looking out, I imagine journeys I have not taken, conversations I have not had, lives I have not lived. How have they survived the genocide? How are they dealing with the recent border war?
In the end, the window is a teacher. It teaches me to notice light and time, to honor community, to accept mystery, to reflect on identity, and to dream of possibility. It is a simple structure, yet it holds profound meaning. As I look through the window, I realize that I am not merely gazing outward—I am also gazing inward.
I am both a watcher and a participant.
Then I close the window, another day, another view.
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