A look, a smile, an inner connection with no words exchanged. We learn in school that our mouth is responsible for talking, and it is. Yet, before our mouths open, our eyes have long been engaged. The windows to our souls are pouring out how we feel. Their message is louder, more powerful, longer-lasting than words.
Even a quick glance as we walk past others is a language in itself. Admiring a hairstyle is taken as a compliment or a friendly gesture, producing a smile. A look of indifference or disdain of the opposite sex burns into the “hey I’m interested” eyes of an onlooker and forces a smoldering head turn. I’m friendly. Bubbly. I’m not in the mood. I’m hurting. I’m naive.
As a woman peering out of her window, visible enough only to reveal part of her frame, people around us will always see pieces of who we are. Sometimes those pieces are not fully understood. Sometimes they appear to be bigger or smaller, lighter or darker than they are inside. Onlookers wonder, why is she watching out her window? Why is she dressed like that?
Yet she waits, peering out, for the moment when someone asks to come in and she can reveal herself.
Windows can be deceiving. Sometimes there is an illusion of a figure waving, but it is merely a reflection or a shadow. Sometimes the woman can be seen clearly, but only in part. Only one side is there for all to see. The rest of her is hidden, distant.
A look can begin a friendship or stop a conversation before it ever starts. Kindred spirits can each see inside the open windows of the other. Instant knowledge. Knowledge of something inside that forms a bond far deeper than words could ever build. Opposites see a threat, danger lurking inside the soul. Uninviting shadows that haunt them long after they peered into them.
We all wear our hearts on our sleeves. What is without, proceeds from within. We fight it, we deny it. We consider ourselves to be talented poker players, jokers. We try to show others what we want them to see. Yet there is always just enough of us on display that everyone gazes upon a shape, or maybe a distorted image, but always pieces of who we are.