A small window stands open beneath the attic ceiling. Two panels of orange curtain part to the left and right and wrap around the window frame, and the white light of morning pours in between them. The light passes through the loosely woven cloth and turns red, and a warm color spreads thinly over the wooden walls and the floorboards.
Faced with a scene like this, the eyes gather on their own toward the middle of the window. Look at the bright side for a while and the eyelids come down a little, and the breath drawn in stretches longer than usual. The soles of the feet begin to feel the grain of the floor, and the shoulders that had risen return quietly to where they belong.
The body before the day begins usually finishes preparing to hurry first. A state of already being tense when nothing has happened yet, and simply noticing that faint impatience can change the texture of the day.
It is fine to open the window a palm's width and count only three breaths. The first breath checks the temperature of the outside air, the second breath goes out long and downward, and on the third breath, how about following with the eyes how far the curtain sways.
The same counting is useful in the corridor on the way back to the office after lunch. On a path evenly covered with fluorescent light, the eyes tend to drift without settling anywhere, and the moment when the focus catches briefly on a window at the end of the corridor or a bright gap at a stair landing is worth noticing. There is also the method of counting how long the gaze stays at that point, and how many steps it takes to come back down to the toes. Observation is plenty at that much.
The light does not come in hurriedly, it passes through one layer of cloth and spreads into the room.
