My New Favorite Show

I can't look away.

My neighbor doesn’t have curtains.

I need to start off that way, because if I jumped right in with “I can’t stop watching the neighbor” that would sound concerning. But it’s not untrue.

The thing is, I never meant to start watching him — I didn’t have a choice in the matter. My desk sits in front of a window that looks directly into his apartment. I spend many of my waking hours here, typing away, with the neighbor always in my eye line. Cavorting around. Sans curtains.

I do not know this person’s name, nor anything about his life story. My knowledge is limited to this: He’s not an early riser. He works from home, perched in front of a desk with a commanding double screen. His signature look is a baseball cap, worn indoors à la Kendall Roy. He’s animated — he paces back and forth on calls and gesticulates at the television. When he reads, he holds his books up curiously high, in front of his face, at eye level.

Hi, neighbor.

For months, “The Bro Show,” as I’ve taken to calling it, was a one-man production, until one evening I looked up and saw a woman perched on his couch. “He brought someone home!” I called to my boyfriend, who does not share my busybody proclivities.

This new character soon became a fixture — eating takeout burritos, pointing at the TV, gazing out the window while brushing her teeth. One night, my typing was interrupted by the sight of exaggerated hand gestures. This time, their exasperation was aimed not at the television, but toward each other.

“Oh no!” I called. “It looks like the neighbor couple is arguing!” (My boyfriend came to the window for that one.)

The woman stormed out in a huff.

This was several weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since.

It’s quite possible that I could stand to get out more. (Okay, fine, this is likely.) But even so, I suspect there are a few reasons I’ve become invested in watching this storyline unfold.

If you were to gaze at a city skyline, you’d see an awful lot to behold. Architecture. Movement. Change. You’d spy people in windows, working early in the morning and well into the night. People working construction, supported by scaffolding that rises and falls and rises again. People at home, in parks, in hospitals. Life, punctuated by the flicker of televisions and birthday candles.

Wherever you looked, you’d see stories. Little reminders of all the plots unfolding in real time.

So. Many. Stories.

Since I was a kid, I’ve always savored going on nighttime drives — the twinkle of headlights on the highway, like stars with human agendas. Where are they headed? What’s playing on the radio? Are they anxious, content, worried, distracted? I wish them all a safe passage, a secret moment of connection.

Humans love stories, and also escapism. We relish attachment, but especially when it’s on our own terms. This is the genius behind reality television, granting an intimate look into someone else’s life, on demand. A hint of empathy, a touch of sympathy, a dash of anthropology. The Bro Show grants a similar peek… but the program is on mute and everything is open to interpretation.

Though I glimpse my neighbor at home — that most intimate and personal of spaces — there is only so much one can glean. Sure, I may have a sense of his mannerisms, hobbies, schedule. But I couldn’t tell you who he is, what he cares about, what he thinks or dreams or fears.

It begs that perennial question: How well can we ever know anyone? Including the people we live amongst. Including the people we are.

On another level, our lives are consumed with windows, but often of another variety — the little glowing boxes on phones and tablets and computer screens. They have a tendency to make everyone’s lives seem more compelling — tidier, shinier, “figured out.”

All this technology has made me appreciate real-life windows even more. They can have the same effect — when you’re on the outside looking in, others’ lives can seem grander, warmer, more established. But if you gaze into them enough (if, say, your neighbors never have curtains) you’d also see laundry, messiness, arguments. Weeknights spent on the couch, with Netflix and take-out. People staring at their own screens, having their own reactions, muddling their way through their lives.

I used to peer into neighborhood windows and sigh at the evidence of what I didn’t have. Families sitting down to dinner, bathed in the warm glow of Christmas tree lights. Coats, of various sizes, hung in a stately foyer. Bookshelves peppered with photos of trips and milestone events.

Those windows made me long for a future stage of life, where any number of dreams came true. The Bro Show flipped the script. Now, I realize I’ve grown nostalgic for a time I’ve left behind. One that was filled with questions, the yearning for what came next.

In the end, maybe it’s not so much about forward motion as it is about savoring the view. Bearing witness to our lives — the tender moments and idiosyncrasies that add up to feeling seen.

It seems like the neighbor is dating again. He loiters in front of his closet, carefully chooses a collared shirt, dabs some cologne behind each ear, slathers on deodorant, and rushes out the door.

“Enjoy this moment!” I want to yell, across the expanse that stretches between our windows. “Even the ones you want to fast forward.”

Instead, I whisper it back to myself.

There will always be windows with better views, just as there will always be unanswered questions. But if there’s anything my windows have taught me, it’s to appreciate the scenery I do have, to lean into those moments before the outcome appears.

The Bro Show offers one final lesson, albeit a less poignant one. Curtains, drapes, blinds, privacy screens — it turns out they do serve a purpose. And are very much worth considering.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring The Aquarian Tarot by David Palladini

Earlier today, I was walking down the street when I fell into step behind a toddler and her parents.

At one point, the girl stopped to acknowledge a flock of pigeons, offering them a wave, a brief dance routine, and a spirited greeting before sprinting off to rejoin her family. I laughed at the sight, touched by both her presence and her outward reverence for other living beings. (I couldn’t publicly greet any creatures that way without causing alarm, something I count among the quiet tragedies of adulthood.) There is much we can learn — from both children and The Sun.

A very welcome card, it speaks to a sudden breakthrough, that moment when the light peeks through the clouds. It’s the lightness of laughter, a much-needed joke in a tense room. It’s the morning after a storm, when the land has been washed clean, the scent of rain lingering in the air.

The Sun has a better vantage point than most. It sees it all — patterns, movement, destruction, progress. It knows what’s coming over the horizon.

This card wishes to remind us that we are born whole, with the capacity to appreciate wonder. As children, we allow our curiosity to pull us forward, as we chase after what brings us alive. But from the moment we arrive, we are told how to behave. We are taught what is appropriate. What is acceptable. What is polite. We learn to temper our whims — for better and for worse.

This is also the case for our true nature. Over the course of our lives, we are told not only how to be, but who to be.

This card asks us to reconnect with who we are, at our core. It also comes with a promise — despite whatever influences the external world attempts to impose, we can always return to our basic selves, as intrinsic and reliable as the sun.

The Sun is literal life force, bringing warmth and light wherever it shines. It isn’t always visible, its presence not always felt. But it is always there, exerting its influence. This card speaks to the pervasive goodness in this world. There are good people, good intentions, good deeds — even when it may feel hard to see them.

Traditional depictions often show a young child on horseback, bathed in the sun’s rays, wild and free. They are completely themself, with nothing to hide. The picture of positivity and presence — concerned only with absorbing this beautiful, perfect moment.

The Sun is unabashedly positive, but it has no room for toxic positivity. It knows that good feelings can’t be faked, nor can they be forced. They can, however, be coerced and cultivated. This week’s message tells us to connect with the people, places, and interests that we enjoy. It encourages us to take small steps (or big ones, if you’re up for it) to introduce some joy into our lives. A hopeful song. A bouquet of flowers from the corner store. Stepping outdoors to feel the sun on your face.

The Sun shines — day in and day out — so that others might prosper. As much as humanly possible, it encourages you to follow its lead. What inspires a feeling of warmth and light? Where would you like to shine? What gifts do you wish to share with the world? What good do you wish to spread? Every day is a new beginning, but it’s up to us to recognize it.

When life feels cloudy, as it can so much these days, the sun promises to be there. Keep your eyes trained to the sky. Dawn always comes streaming over the horizon, even after the darkest nights.

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