There is a door in a room in my heart where all the things I've ever wanted are locked away. I looked high and low for the key. I went to far off distant places, and I talked to far off distant gurus. But they did not have it. I checked under rock and stone until one day, I reached in my pocket. And in that pocket, I found that key with a tag saying, "Not to be used until the time is right." And now that that time has come, I am turning the nob.
But with each subtle twist of creaky, cranky, screaming metal and the growing, sinewy resistance in my wrist--the muscles screaming to go back--I feel the yearning for easier ways of being. For easier well-known paths where others have laid brick and mortar for my tremulous feet. It makes me wonder if the time is right. Have I been too bold? Too brazen? Too audacious in my desire to claim my life? Has that desire infiltrated the purity of aspiration to swing back around on me in the double-whammy of sublime come-uppance.
The creak is giving way to an easier twist, and the latch clicks. An echo reverberates in the house, announcing the change. Things are in motion, and I find that I've created a new inertia in my life. The door starts to swing wide just as a beam in the back of the room behind me crashes to the ground. The old house, my beautiful, lovely home is falling apart. I had not noticed. I had not realized. So much of the old structure is collapsing no longer able to support itself.
I look in the dismay. Feeling like Lot, knowing that I should return my gaze forward. The deliciousness of nostalgia wraps around me like a well worn blanket. I begin to falter.
A hand on my wrist. A gentle glowing, etheric hand catches my attention from beyond the door. A beckoning. A subtle reminder of what I had sought now so close at hand. Ah yes. I remember. I remember again. I step into the unknown.