There are so many doors.
Some swing open with a gusto and close with a bang. Others open with a slow creak and need to be pulled shut. Some doors never actually close. They come up against the door frame and just stop, a shaft of light coming from the in-between place of in and out.
Some doors seem to not want to open, and the jiggling of the handle and the grip of a key that doesn’t want to fit leaves one to wonder why is there a door here in the first place if it’s so hard to get inside?
There are doors with glass in them and doors with busted out glass. There are new doors where the paint lacquer shimmers on their fronts and there are old doors where the paint has peeled back and the wither and weather of old wood is exposed.
Doors keep out.
Doors hide away.
Doors include and doors exclude.
There is a narrow door.
And there is a door where the Ancient of Days knocks and asks to come in.
Then, there are doors that cannot be seen. They are a metaphors. Like a door that signifies the beginning of a new opportunity, or the door that closes when it’s time to move on.
The long, slow closing of a door begins for me today. Thirty school days from now a door will shut. Eighteen years at Elm Street School will come to a close.
After almost a year of ruminating, muddling, talking, seeking counsel, and many, many conversations with the Lover of my soul, it has become clear that it’s time for me to walk out the door and whatever happens when one leaves something behind, I’m to embrace it all.
It hit me last Saturday morning while watching my grandson play his last soccer game on the lower field at Elm Street, that it was my last soccer game at Elm Street, too. Despite the mist that surrounded me that day, I was suddenly struck with the clarity, that in the days to come, there will be many “lasts.”
How do tears spring up so suddenly that you have to grip your lawn chair and grit your teeth so hard to keep from crying because you don’t want the parent sitting next to you to think you are a crazy person who cries at soccer games?
When a door closes slowly, you see everything in slow motion. The space gets smaller, more detailed, more specific. The images of what is closing around you gets etched in your brain. You remember.
I’ve got thirty days to remember it all.