Old Door somewhere in Italy. (c) A. Furchert
I found this photo of an old door today. Something appealed to me. Was it the old layers peeling off? The beauty of the patina?
And is the paint peeling from the door or is the door freeing itself from all the accumulated layers of age, seeking its origin and source?
We are always quick to paint over. A fresh coat of paint, they say, and everything looks like new.
But what if the layers of the door could speak? Would they tell us tales from former times, of people who walked through the door, of conversation overheard, of kisses on the threshold?
What doors of life come to your mind? Doors guarding old memories, or doors to inner rooms long closed?
May you come to cherish
the many layers covering
the door of your heart
may you find courage
to listen to their memories
the good and the bad
and the long forgotten
keep the good
and bid farewell to the burdensome
like dusting off the flaking paint
from your heart’s door.
Let go of the old which longs to be dusted away
and cherish the patina of what is beneath.
…
Be the patina
Be the door
and the threshold.