There are two large windows in the Recovery Connections office, not counting the doors facing the outer lobby or the slit of glass in the back door. One window is between my boss and myself with the shade closed for privacy, and the other is a sliding glass door that faces the waiting area.

If my boss opened his window shade, mostly he would get to see my back of my head. The only time I ever see the back of my head is when I go to get my hair cut, and the barber gives me a hand mirror so I can look to see if she had done a good job. Usually it looks pretty good in the barber chair, but I have no idea how it looks after I’ve done my own hair. He might also see my work area in various states of chaos. Today, the chaos isn’t too bad, I hope.

I’m sure he’d like to see something more, something different, like a view outside in nature and people running around in it. Can’t say I’d blame him - I’d want a similar view from time to time.

Every morning I open the other window, and with a click and a slide, there is air circulation, the sounds of buzzing activity from the office across the hall, and sometimes, the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee. There’s a sense of just a little more connectedness with the world with the window open.

When I go online to post to Facebook or to the blog, I open a window of a different sort. There’s nature, there’s people, there’s music, there’s all sorts of other things to look at and interact with. There’s people out there who can touch your heart by the words, pictures and music they post, and it’s a form of connectedness, but not a full experience.

There were two days in September where I was able to view the issue of suicide from two perspectives – one day was spent with professionals who deal with those who attempt and/or complete suicide, and the other day was spent with survivors and family members. Both sides have a common goal – they want the people they care for who are contemplating suicide to contemplate living and surviving instead. I was quietly amazed at the reality before me, that I would be a part of helping people to consider living.

Six years ago, I viewed life from a darkened window, contemplating suicide. Life sucked. My second marriage had tanked, my job was in peril because 9/11 had affected business terribly, my physical health was awful, and I lived isolated way out in the North Georgia mountains, leaving the house only to go to work, church on occasion, and grocery shopping. I went online to talk to people in support groups, but it wasn’t quite the same. Lonely and in physical, emotional and spiritual pain, I wanted out.

One day, contemplation was almost completion when I walked slowly and deliberately from the office where I worked to the street that ran in front of it. I stopped at the edge of the curb, staring at it, then at the traffic. I wanted something big to hit me when I would walk in front of it, to make sure that I had no chance of coming back. I felt like I was in a trance, seduced by the thought of the pain ending for good.

A friend from church had stopped by the business next door, and when she came out, she saw me at the very moment one of my feet left the curb, and shouted “Hello!” That jarred me out of my trance, and good manners prevailed, so instead of saying goodbye, I said “hello” right back.

If it hadn’t been for her being there at that very moment, I wouldn’t be here, plain and simple.

On the day of the Suicide Symposium and the day of the Empty Shoe Memorial, both in Harrisburg, I heard stories of loss and survival. In hearing the stories, what struck me hard was that of those of us who survive, many of us were one person away from death. This is one of those things where one person really does make a difference in another’s life - anyone can provide a window of opportunity for a person to choose life by just being there for them.

Today, I am in a different place, seeing life through a different window; I am working at a place that understands and promotes recovery, my health is improving as a result of taking charge of it, and I am slowly but surely working my way out of isolation. I like what I see these days – I see possibilities for change, I see people who are walking in the light of recovery, and most of all I see hope.