tis too dark to see
I love to travel; I loathe to leave home. I am the bewildered one. I would embrace the world if I could find the key of willingness to open my arms. The size of the roof over my head belies the reality of the mansion that is my heart. It is a mansion with a hundred doors I cannot open, behind which is all the wisdom to be had if I would brave all the fear that is before. Even when I would leave forever, never to return, I stand tiptoe on the threshold anxiously seeking my way back. How is this so? Why is it so? It is as though I am two completely different women, but it is more likely I am one complete woman torn asunder.
Stepping away from the threshold of indecision, I nip and swat and swipe tensely at the fears blocking the many ways to wisdom. With that I fill my days as a store clerk tending the illusion of importance, of authority, of busyness by diligently wiping the fingerprints off the glass cases and straightening the displays. Yes, the work needs to be done, but the greater purpose lies in the doorways beyond, not beyond the doors.
Yes, I mean "in the doorways". In the absence of willingess no doors are needed to block my way to these dark places, and the transformation I undergo simply by walking through them with nothing to comfort me but the vague promise of wonder is often part of - if not wholly - the reason such ways are so dark: to impress upon me that with every act of faith I become the light by which I travel, and by which others may follow my path.
I cannot draw this dark passageway any more than the most talented artist in the world could draw the face of God: blind in my personal night, attempting to define the shape of the way by feel, I reach out and touch neither wood nor stone, but
in the form of a question:
"What will I become?"