"I moved house. I moved from a downstairs cell to an upstairs one. You would think that one prison cell is essentially the same as any other and, at first, it does seem that way. With familiarity however, each cell reveals its own unique personality. One may get better radio reception. The way the bed is bolted down in another may give you just a wee bit more space. The ceiling is considerably lower in an upstairs cell making it easier to clean but can graze the head of the person siting one the top bunk. The gap between the desks may or may not be perfect for a trash can or the laundry. Nonetheless, we don't pick our cells. We are assigned beds and move when and where we are told.

I moved because a downstairs bottom bunk was needed--my roommate's bed. And since good roommates are hard to come by, or more accurately, since roommates who will put up with me are in short supply, we moved as a package deal. What cell I lived in made no difference to me, or so I thought. Besides I like change and I don't have the opportunity to enjoy much variety so the possibility of moving from one cell to another (upstairs!) was thrilling indeed.

My roommate cleaned, and I examined, every nook and cranny of our new space and graded the success of our move. The light was less bright in its intensity and the color was very, very good. The hooks on which we can hang our coats were useless. Not good. The sharp edge that would slice a 6-inch gash in my leg as I came off my old bed was absent. Excellent. But when I relaxed the technique of my top-bunk dismount, I whacked my head on the ceiling with teeth-rattling bone jarring intensity. Not good at all. The view out the window was also boring. My heart began to sink.

Since 1998, my view has been of the prison courtyard. I have watched the comings and goings of the staff, inmates and dogs. Looking out the window was my TV. And as I have mentioned before, I have on several occasions got my head stuck in that four-inch space. While I would never he caught dead rubbernecking, peeping discretely out the window is an obsessive past-time. But all that has changed. My view now is of trees and the ball field. My view has turned from the inside to the outside. My initial response to this new view was, "Oh no, I won't see what's going on!"

When I first moved upstairs, I knew the additional exercise of going up and down the steps would be good for me. But I never anticipated that the change in view would affect me. Instead of focusing on the prison courtyard, I am looking out beyond my circumstances. It's a subtle shift. I am more relaxed. I don't waste huge chunks of time trying to figure out what's happening; examining it, discussing it, and trying to unravel it from my four-inch perspective. Instead I look out the window to marvel at the birds. I rest in the trees. I cheer the ball games.

It's embarrassing to think of all the time I have squandered obsessing over things over which I had no control. The change in my view has helped me to be more outward, generous, peaceful, surrendered. In lieu of looking out the window to have a handle on what's going on, I look out the window for the pleasure of letting go. Most excellent!" (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, October 14, 2004).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is part of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'

Note that with this issue, the Fluvanna Review has commenced weekly publication. It is not known if Ms Haysom's column will also become weekly.