It is Only a Door

In my life as a city dweller, I have always favored walking to any other mode of transportation. In fact, the ability to easily stroll from here to there (and not have to cross a busy median and 8 lanes of traffic) is, in large part, why I prefer living in the city. There is, of course, more to see and do in a city, but I would argue that in itself is true only because a city forces you to interact with it, every part of it, by encouraging you to get out of your car and walk the walk.

From the moment I moved to my current big city of choice, I walked everywhere I could. Here. There. Everywhere. But most often, I would cut up and over a hill, marching along the top plateau, only to descend at its crookedest point, at which I took a deep breath, admired the 360 degrees of breathtaking, postcard views, and ambled my way down through countless tourist's shots, always, without question, at the end of my descent inexplicably veering off to the right. Well, it was inexplicable only at first. It quickly came to be habit because I had an agenda -- I liked to visit the doorways. The doorways of the buildings to the right were so beautiful. Each different, each mesmerizing. Being a child of the suburbs, the audacity and intrigue of the red door always captured my imagination. As is its way, the city did the childhood daydream one better. Intricate latticework, sculpture of wrought iron, framed in alabaster, majestic in its sweeping details, some delicate, some incredibly grand. I wondered what it would be like to live a life contained within such a doorway. The thought of it, even on the darkest days, as I walked past, inspired a relentless curiosity and possibility.

And then I forgot.

I now live behind the tallest, grandest and most ornate of those fabled doorways. It has been over two years now. It is only today that I remembered that I had paid continuous homage to these magical thresholds, and that I live behind the one I found to be the most beautiful and mesmerizing of all.

Two years.

There is so much I missed for so long. Even my own preferences and desires, forgotten. And yet, apparently, myopic as my mind's eye may be, I am led back to where I belong.

Panglossian as it may sound, I know that is true. I always end up where I belong. When I lead with my other senses, I am more likely to get more directly to where I need to be. If I lead with my sight, with what I "know" and what I "want", I will get there too. But, without exception, the road is longer, bumpier and exceedingly more painful.

I need to trust in that. And yet, though I know it to be true, I can't. Trust eludes me.

Me of little faith.

When I was graduating from college, the op-ed piece in the school paper was written by a classmate of mine. Topically, it was the usual reflective piece on the college experience and what the future would soon hold. But within the piece, my classmate excerpted a poem. Though I clipped the article, and the emotion of how it moved me remains vivid, I cannot locate the yellowed clipping (and so far Google has let me down in locating the text via alternate means). What I remember is this, the poem, a piece about immigrants arriving at Ellis Island, extolled the virtues of the door. Of all the possibilities such a thing holds, of all the magic it conjures, of all the disappointments it might also contain. But that in the end, while it is all of those things, the power for it to realize them always rests with you, as, "It is only a door."

It is up to me to walk through it. Impossible as the task has always seemed, that was the part I was sure of long ago. It is the part about realizing you have walked through, and opening your eyes to the magic and the possibility on the other side, that I am only now beginning to understand.