Number-one bestselling author
For some time,
everywhere I went
there was a
door that followed
me. It was
scarred and its
paint was peeling,
its door knob
was rusted. On
the door was
written one word:
Life
I would see
the door out
of the corner
of my eye
no matter where
I went. It
would appear in
front of me
while I was
walking, always a
step ahead of
me. For a
while, I was
the only one
who could see
it. The door changed
as the years
went by. The
paint changed colour,
it looked even
more aged as
I got older.
Finally, one of
my friends noticed
the door. She
nudged me in
the ribs softly.
“You know there’s a door there, right?”
I looked at
her, surprised that
she could see it.
“You can see it too?”
I asked. She
nodded and said
“Of course I can. How long has that been following you around?”
I shrugged.
“Quite some time. Years actually.”
She gaped at
me and said:
“Why haven’t you gone through it yet?”
“Because I have no idea where it will lead.”
“Isn’t that part of the fun? Life is meant to be experienced. Open the door and find out where it goes.”
I walked home,
the door following
me. It had
begun to pulse
and shift, almost
as if it were
starting to fade.
It stood in
the middle of
my living room.
The word on
the door,
Life
had begun to
glow, the door
handle shining brilliantly.
I took a
deep breath and
reached for the
door handle, expecting
it to be
white hot in
my hand. Instead,
it was as
if a calming
breeze filled my
skin. I opened
the door slowly
and, at first,
saw only light.
Then a shape
began to become
clear. I was
looking at the
shape of a
man. He held
out his hand
to me and
I took it.
“Come with me.”
You said.
“There is so much of life waiting to be explored.”
I stepped through
the door and
felt my life
begin anew.
I checked the mail
when I got home.
I opened the mail box
and was nearly blinded
by the light coming
from within. I shielded
my eyes and reached inside.
There was one envelope.
Looking at it, I tried to
blink past the light
to see who it was from.
When I saw the return address,
I knew it could be
only one thing. I went
upstairs, holding the envelope
so gently. While I rode
up in the elevator,
I listened to a soft
music coming from the envelope,
the light pulsing in rhythm.
I waited until I was
inside the apartment,
until I was with him,
to open it. When I opened
the envelope, more light
spilled out and I marvelled
at the fact that a simple
piece of paper could shine so brightly.
“Well, go on.”
He said.
“See what it is.”
I slid the paper out
and saw it for what it was.
The chains that had been
around my writs and ankles
for so long, jingling like
Marley’s ghost, fell away.
The light spilled into me
and I almost turned away from it.
It felt wrong, somehow,
that I should be feeling such joy
at what is normally a
sad occurrence. I ran a finger
over the surface of the paper
and I could swear that I could
hear it sigh in contentment.
I mentioned my thoughts
to him and he put the paper aside
and took my hands in his.
“Look at everything you’ve been through. You would be a different person if you hadn’t been through it.”
I thought of his words and
they struck a chord in me;
it rang out loud to sound out
with the small song coming
from the paper. I thought
of what he said. Had I
not known heartache,
I would not have looked
for something more.
Had I now known despair,
I would not have looked
for true happiness.
Had I not known solitude
when I was supposed
to be overjoyed,
I would have never
learned to be comfortable
with myself; I would
never have looked within
myself to see what I truly
wanted and what I was worth.
Had the one I had been with
loved me completely,
I would never have been found
by the one that loves me now,
each day with him a gift.
So I looked down at the paper
that to some symbolized
pain, rejection and failure
and realized that the one
that I had been with had
given me another gift of sorts.
Through his actions, he had
forced me to forge out
on my own and to see what
I was truly capable of.
What I was truly worth.
I put my hand to the page
and said the only thing I could.
“Thank you.”
At that, the light from the page
increased until it was near blinding
once more and the song coming
from the paper and from inside
of me rose to a higher pitch,
so that the home I now shared
with him, the man that
holds my heart as I hold his,
was filled with my heart song,
bright and pure and true.
There is a twin inside of me,
one that rarely sees the light
of day, or feels the light inside
of me. He doesn’t stop to ask,
to comprehend, to contemplate.
All he knows is emotion, pure
and unadulterated. However,
whereas I try to live my life
holding light, within the light,
he knows only darkness.
As he is my twin, the yin to
the yang to my light self,
his emotions are mine.
When he takes over,
I can see myself through his eyes.
I can contemplate his actions,
try and stop him, try to hold him
back from doing something he
will regret. But there must be
darkness to appreciate the light
just as there must be light
to appreciate the darkness.
I’ve struggled with him,
with who he is and have
a terrible time convincing myself
that he is myself at my most
dark moments. After the whirlwind
of his emotions, I spend a day or two
taking myself to task for giving in,
for entertaining such thoughts and actions.
I get mad at myself for letting him take over
and then I get angry with myself for being angry.
It is an almost unending cycle
of self abuse and self loathing. However,
there is light at the end of the tunnel.
It shines bright amongst the shadows
that linger within me. Within that light
is my salvation, my relief, my breath.
I often see myself walking down
a tunnel, one hand holding shadows
and one hand holding light.
He’s walking beside me.
Eventually, he sees how tired I am,
how weary, and he reaches out to take
the shadow. But there’s light at the edges,
twinkling like stars. Just as there is
darkness within my light, adding depth
to the brightness that shines forth.
I walk to the exit of the tunnel,
the light glorious on my skin.
As I walk into the light, I look back
only once. He is standing there,
watching me go and I wonder,
fleetingly, when I will see him again.
* For Rachael, with thanks and gratitude.
When the siren sounded,
we ran to the cliffs.
I would have to
scale the rock face
to find safety.
I didn’t think I
would be able to find
my way to safety.
Looking downward, it seemed
to be an infinity of space
between where I was
and where I would be safe.
“Want some help?”
I turned and saw a
mystic woman. She was
dressed in a flowing garment
of silver and black;
it flowed around her in the breeze
that flowed so strongly
on the top of the mountain.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
I said to her. I was so afraid,
terrified, really, when each step
could mean disaster.
She smiled at me,
and she spoke kind words
that lit a fire inside of me:
“You can do whatever you set your mind to. Come on, I’ll help you.”
Slowly, so very slowly,
I made my way down the mountain
with her assistance. She watched
my every step to be sure that
it was true and stable.
She helped me to find
the footholds in the rock face,
the depressions in the rock
that I could hold on to.
She kept checking on my
to make sure that I was
all right and kept up a
constant chatter to take my
mind off of the task
we currently found ourselves in.
I just told myself to take it
one step at a time,
and tried not to think about
tumbling down the mountain,
landing in the water.
I focused on taking
one small step after another,
and part way down, I knew
that I could to this.
We passed through a veil
of mist as we finished our journey,
and it blinded me temporarily.
When we got to the bottom,
I looked back at
how far we had come,
how high we had been.
I saw flights of stairs
rising up sixteen flights.
People were still climbing
downward, milling around us.
What had seemed like a mountain
at first was now revealed
to be merely one more
obstacle that I’ve conquered.
One more mountain that
I’ve climbed down from.
I looked at the mystic
that had climbed downward
with me and could only
give her my thanks.