I see myself in the books, the chiffon curtains, the posters on the wall that I can’t quite decipher. I see myself in the person who’s trying to make the ordinary, the mundane, the… limiting, beautiful.

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I don’t think I’ve met a single person who genuinely enjoys their commute to work. Sure, they’ll say things like, “Yeah, it’s alright” or “Yeah, could be worse”. I’ve met people who don’t mind their work commute. I have yet to meet someone whose commute to work is the highlight of their day.

Why is that, I wonder?

Does the commute signify their impending arrival at a job that brings little to no joy? Does it involve struggling through crowds of people, equally uninspired and unmotivated? Does it steal away that preciously fleeting moment – the one exclusive to mornings – where one feels like anything can happen? One’s morning commute is kind of like one’s morning coffee. For some, lacklustre. For others, intense. For most, necessary to sustain life.

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I’ve come to – I won’t say ‘love’ or ‘like’ my commute to work – but respect it. I take an early bus, really early. It’s either that, or arrive late. In the beginning, it was a real pain, I can’t lie. I had just moved to Manchester, my sleep schedule was out of whack, and to tell you the truth, watching the city disappear behind me as I got closer to the suburbs would really bog me down.

But the suburbs have always felt gloomy to me, really. And not just at home, but everywhere.

In Portugal, it was the little towns I’d pass on the way to Porto or Lisbon. Towns that many would call quaint or charming, but that always felt, to me, unnervingly provincial. In Italy, the suburbs are a whole other story. The best way I can describe them is: rough around the edges. Apartment blocks smeared with indecipherable graffiti. Plastic chairs on tiny balconies. Locals staring back at you, begrudgingly – “you” being the train rushing past, on its way to the city. Toward that impossible place that only few can call “home”.

English suburbs are worlds apart from their European counterparts. There’s a certain “greyness” to them. A quality that is simultaneously depressing and nostalgic. Maybe it’s the proximity to my old high school, the dated shopping centres, or the way people move – slowly and perfunctorily – that makes me feel kind of, uncomfortable.

I don’t quite know when this “distaste” for the suburbs began. All I know is that I am at my happiest in a big city.

But I digress…

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I was a month or so into my new job. I was on the bus. The weather was, as usual, unremarkable. Not necessarily rainy, not necessarily sunny; same old, same old. The bus was turning its usual corner, past the sad-looking greengrocers, the budget-friendly supermarket, the local parish – when I saw it.

It.

The bay window.

It was the curtain that struck me first. A pastel, multicoloured, chiffon curtain. Then it was the plants. A mishmash of houseplants. Some hanging from the shelves, others, the window itself. After that, it was the posters. A map, I think. Another, perhaps a movie poster. My eyesight isn’t that good. Finally, it was the books. Towers and towers of books. And they looked old, quite old. They reminded me of my books. Even from a distance, I could tell they were well-loved.

From that point on, I made a conscious effort to look for the bay window. To make a mental note of any changes. If the curtain was fully drawn, I’d wonder why. If it was open, I’d smile. On the rare occasion, I’d even notice a new addition to the room. Fairy lights, once. A dreamcatcher, another time. Small changes, but changes, nonetheless. What struck me most about the window, though, was the way it stood out amongst its colourless surroundings. While the other houses and shopfronts kind of melted into one another – into a greyish sludge – the window did not. The window, in all its vibrant, disparate glory, decided that it would not conform, that it would be different.

Correction.

It was the person behind the bay window – the whimsical decorator, the lover of old books, the proud plant parent – who decided to be different.

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From the moment I first noticed the window, my commute got easier. I’d get on the bus with the knowledge that I’d pass the window. That I might notice a new book or plant. That I might catch a glimpse of someone I could quietly, deeply identify with. Two individuals who are doing everything they can to make things a little more, beautiful.

But it’s not just them. Or me. Is it?

I think it’s most of us.

In seeing the bay window, it reminded me of the famous proverb, “the grass isn’t always greener”.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve longed for something else. A job that closely – if not perfectly – aligns with my passions. A city that inspires and comforts. A life that little-me would look at, starry-eyed, and think: wow. And I think a part of me will always tend toward that “something else”. Because I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t faintly distracted by the life I’m not living.

What I’ve learned to do recently, though – what age, experiences, and small moments like my seeing the bay window for the first time have taught me – is to find ways of making the ordinary, remarkable.

To look at where I am and ask: How can I move forward without actually moving?

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There’s a poem I read recently, from one of my favourite anthologies, Being Alive (2004). It’s called, ‘City Lights’:

…To look into eyes and know there are many directions…
…To happen on the long light down certain streets as the sun is setting…
…To wait in queues, anonymous as the price code in a supermarket…
…To board a bus where everyone is talking at once, and count eight distinct languages and not know any…
…For the joy of walking out the front door and becoming instantly, and resolutely, lost…
…To be one among many…
…To be many.

(Roo Borson)

A facet of infrastructure.

A passage from which light and fresh air can enter – or be denied entry.

A visual gateway to the comings and goings of strangers.

The bay window – one of many. And me, one of many. One of many trying, in whatever small way we can, to bring beauty and colour into life.

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I knew I wanted to wrap up this post tonight, so I looked more carefully than usual. I didn’t see the curtain. Maybe it’s gone. I did notice a small disco ball. Has it always been there? If I had to guess, I’d say the disco ball is there to reflect sunlight. To scatter little flecks of rainbow. At least, that’s why I’d have one. There are polaroids on the wall. I used to do that too. Now, I opt for postcards.

The bay window is, in fact, not a bay window. It’s completely flat.

It jutted out at me the first time I saw it. Every time after.

Except today.

Why?

Maybe it’s my brain’s way of embracing September – the month of new beginnings and change.

Maybe I looked a little too closely this time. Ruined the magic, so to speak.

Or maybe…

Maybe I don’t need to look out for the window anymore. Because maybe, just maybe, everything I’ve been searching for is already here – on the bus.