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Standing in a doorway
is tricky business.
Liminal space,
betwixt/between.
Hand on doorknob,
we pause
wondering, in a part of us
that’s like an obscured room
in the corner of the basement
whose access is hidden
behind forgotten items
that should have been taken
to Goodwill or the Salvation Army
long ago,
if we will gain entry.
Will the door be locked?
Will it open just enough
for us to get a peek
of the glorious wonders
sparkling inside—
ivory brocade, blush swan napkins,
Limoge china, Waterford crystal,
peonies flowing down
a banquet table gleaming
with scintillating conversations
of the elite in lace and silk—
only to have the door jerk shut in our face
as if to say,
“This is not for you.”
In this anticipatory fear,
we often drop our hand,
turn away,
slink into the same old place,
blaming the world
for our lack of courage
at facing the fear
of possible ridiculed rejection.
But we never know
what’s on the other side
of that door,
even if we think we do.
We don’t.
Sure, it could open
to basement stairs
creaking down into
a dark basement
rumored to be haunted
by a jazz age serial killer,
cueing the creepy music
of a horror movie
that makes us want to scream,
“Can’t you hear the scary music?
DON’T GO DOWN THERE!”
Or it could reveal an oak-paneled room
smelling of brandy and cigars
and monied deals
that women rarely get to see
in the backrooms of power.
Monty Hall counted on us
being so curious
that we couldn’t stand
wondering if maybe . . .
We don’t like not knowing
what’s waiting for us
on the other side of that door!
Doors are magic places,
opening into great unknowns.
It might be terrifying,
but the door could also open
into a room with
a wall of windows
overlooking the ocean
where earth and sea and sky
co-mingle in misty dance
drawing us into welcome wide.
We just don’t know
until we take that chance,
turn the handle,
enter, and see.