There is a Door
There is a door. I can see it. I have felt it many times. It is strong and heavy but really only feels heavy. It feels tall like a redwood or solid like an oak. Dark heavy wood, at least it feels heavy.
I have seen it open. It is beautiful inside. Home. No, better than home. It is home for the Homed. I belong there. I know this.
Inside there is strength. I can feel it even from the outside. Inside there is courage. I can feel it. It has fortified me the times that I have had a foot halfway in the door standing at the threshold. Inside there is me- tall, solid, unwavering and alive, really alive. I have seen what I look like in there. It embarrasses me to see what I look like out here.
I have stood at this door for many moons and suns and birthdays and Holydays and deaths and births and loves and lusts and mountains and valleys and oceans and deserts. More deserts than oceans though.
I count. And I have been counted.
There are many zeroes after my history- not days but years and centuries and millenniums. Many zeroes. I am not a newbie. I have been at this game longer than even I can imagine. I have cried and begged to get in. My wrist gets slapped like a child chewing gum in Sunday school by Mother Mary Margaret or Rabbi Chaim Weiss. The scars still remain on these tattered limbs. I see them when my eyes are closed. Only when there is nowhere to hide like when the eyes are open. Darkness shines on the Atlantic at midnight. All looks so inviting but I cannot get in the door that way. Not me. Others maybe, but my agreement is different.
I’ve tried the back door too. It is lighter; almost see through. Transparent without really letting us see in beyond a glimpse of the porch. The red, yellow, purple and blue flowers sure do look pretty on that back porch. Sometimes at night I dream of their fragrance; its sweetness overwhelms me. I can’t sleep those nights.
I matter. And I have mattered. I still do.
There is no side door. Just the illusion of the back and the willful front. To touch the front door is to remember where we came from but have forgotten how to get back there. I wonder how many times we are given the grace to place our hands on the door and not enter? Is there a statute of limitations on grace or forgiveness? Can the Sacred Trust be permanently broken or can we get by with all these little fractured threads?
Is running in place any different than running backwards?
I have been here before. I know the ripe smells of the Honeysuckle, the clear Voice that echoes through time and space, the grip of the solid door, the sweet taste of fresh mango, the vision of purpose and the waiting hand from The Beginning.
I have been here before. What will it take to enter with both feet in the door and to not run and hide back in the familiar comfort of distraction and stimulation?
There is a door. When will I be ready and truly willing to enter?