I love doors. Their anatomy and structure, feel and physics. Height. Breadth. Width. Depth. The protruding ledge of the frame that makes the jamb, intruding line in the floor that marks the distance, destination, to and from.
Singular architectural entities, aren’t doors? A mysterious alchemy of profane and sacred, material in definition, mystical in cognizance. Yet unlike most things readily available in the universe, no door is the same even when carved or manufactured by the same entity. Hinging on your memory, the same door yard can spark dread or delight, humor or anger. Can lead to a new beginning, mark an ending.
Not surprisingly, the vocabulary of doors is also just as fascinating. In English, the noun for the movable joint on which the door lid swings is also the verb for dependency, reliance. In Sindhi, the word for a single door lid is sometimes figuratively used to describe thresholds, the demarcation between within and without.
And yet, for all their uniqueness, its never the door itself that tethers the person. Rather, it’s the silence between within and without.
You know it. Everyone does.
That loud quiet between being and becoming, the unseen storm in he center of having and holding. It’s a mystery indescribable.
The note of a stillness and the silence of a song…