Another Door
It seems, these days, that when I do some contemplating doors are a recurring theme.
I am grateful to you for teaching me about who I am.
Picture: door.
Death is behind a door. A closed door.
Life is at the top of an open door—a door leading up—not in.
Strange.
Now here is 20 minutes of contemplative prayer on the concept of love. You’d think I’d get a lot. Such an immense subject. So fresh in my mind.
And on my heart.
And all I get is the image of a door.
And then behind the door all sorts of scenarios.
Nothing special.
Nothing that would go into the sentiment of a Valentine’s Day card.
Just ordinary interactions between two people.
Is that what I am missing about love?
That underneath it all, it’s just life?
Like breathing?
Perhaps it is we who continually separate it out—put it on a shelf—under glass.
Ah, how special! Love!
But in this timed vision, there was nothing special about it at all.
It was just there.
Perhaps it’s just there when we allow ourselves to be open to someone else.
A door.
If love is a door, then that implies that we control access. That we do the opening and the closing.
Or do we?
Does the door activate itself?
Is it God-activated?
Or does it regulate itself? Like breath most of the time?
Is love a natural part of the natural order? A built-in? That confuses and overwhelms us?
Or does it just exist, below one’s notice until the door is kicked wide open—
and we are invited to go through?