"When I first arrived at Fluvanna in 1998, I got my head stuck in my four-inch window. At Goochland (VCCW or the Women's Farm) we had large casement windows. They had bars, of course, and screens but they cranked open and afforded magnificent views of the rolling farmland, the James River and old growth trees. I spent hundreds of hours staring at the life cycle of insects and birds and plants. And, here at Fluvanna, in spite of the impossibly narrow window and its design to allow only forward viewing, I cannot seem to shake the habit. Even with deep bruises on my temples and ugly dents down the side of my face ('window face' we call it), I still find myself straining at the window to see.

What? I don't know. There is nothing to see--dreary barracks-style buildings, struggling grass and a patch of sky that never holds the sun or moon. Perhaps in my isolation it's an instinctive reaching out to the world outside my window as though I could transport myself there on eye-beams. And I am isolated. At the time of this writing I don't watch any television--by that I mean it is unplugged and packed away. The radio reception is terrible. I see no newspapers. I live in deep exile, which made it all the more startling when a variety of people, several weeks ago, began to contact me and advise me not to become discouraged. Discouraged? I thought. Discouraged, they continued, by the negativity leveled at you over these columns.

My initial reaction, I'm ashamed to admit, was pure ego. I was ecstatic that anyone was reading them and reacting to them. I was provoking thoughtful discussion! Sadly, this reaction was followed by darker musings about thought police and Pharisees of perfection. I had an urge to wax long if not eloquent on Moses, David, Saul of Tarsus--all murderers whom they might read without qualm. (And what about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Oscar Wilde, Fydor Dostoevsky, O'Henry, etc? There is a healthy precedent for felonious writers). It was not until much later when I was at walking rec., that I heard and listened to that other, truer, voice--the quiet piercing one.

'Glimpses From Inside' is written for my fellow ragamuffins. You know--those who get their heads stuck in windows a third and fourth time; those who like myself are deeply faulted but are straining for something just out of reach, for those who need a little encouragement; that even in the basest and most mundane of lives, there is the possibility of goodness and the hope of transformation. This column is for those who flunked English, or maybe never even finished school, but who struggle anyway to express their truth. It is for those who think and feel that their lives are meaningless, without value, and they are stuck in a perpetual dreariness but who refuse to succumb because they know perseverance and endurance, compassion and generosity win the race--not perfection.

This glimpse is for you. Do not be discouraged by the view. Get unstuck and be encouraged that if a wretch like me can be put to constructive service, imagine the possibilities for you." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, May 15, 2003).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. She is serving a 90 year sentence as an accessory to the murder of her parents in 1985. This column is part of a series, under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'