Today was warm enough to open my window for a while. I sat down in a pile of clean sheets at the sunny end of my bed to read a Weberian analysis of French Catholicism and to feel the fresh air and light on my face and arms. I cannot wait until it is warm enough to leave the window open through the night.
One of my favorite memories from my childhood: night, in bed, reading on my stomach by a small light. I slept on the lower bunk and our bed faced the window which faced westward, with the ocean in sight during the day. Many evenings it would be open a few inches letting in the dark sky's wind and the noise of traffic, and I could feel the sweet cool west-coming air on my face but the rest of me would be wrapped up in a blanket. I told my mother then how much I loved this, and she said, I think, perhaps because when I was a baby and awake at night she would hold me bundled up by the open window like that.