Why do they pull me close and still my feet? Why do I photograph them and stare at them and steal other people's door pictures?
I linger in front of them and sometimes want to sit and make myself at home? Why is that? In my head begins a story as I imagine lives going through them? I hear whispers calling from the other side. A promise waiting to open before me.
Let me just have a little peak through the window.
Let me just have a little peak through the window.
No. That's a lie. I want to enter through the door. I want to feel the knob in my hand, push it open. Invade and go all the way in. All the way to the back porch and yard where swings and hearts dwell.
Why do I imagine it? That's not my door. Not my right.
But still there is a compelling. A compelling that holds me because I think the threshold wants me there. That something is happening and if I leave I'll miss it. A compelling that brings me back to stand and photograph the same porches and doorways over again.
Are the doors like the first notes in the song of a life? Pretty on the outside, but perhaps just blushed and mascaraed to contend. A pretense? Beautiful first notes don't mean the song won't be sad.
And where is it exactly in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, things old and broken and faded, do I see beauty? Im not sure except that I do. The story in the scarred wood makes my curiosity run far and fast and sometimes I can't catch it so I just let it go. But what if this door's song sings of the greatest love?
But still there is a compelling. A compelling that holds me because I think the threshold wants me there. That something is happening and if I leave I'll miss it. A compelling that brings me back to stand and photograph the same porches and doorways over again.
Are the doors like the first notes in the song of a life? Pretty on the outside, but perhaps just blushed and mascaraed to contend. A pretense? Beautiful first notes don't mean the song won't be sad.
And where is it exactly in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, things old and broken and faded, do I see beauty? Im not sure except that I do. The story in the scarred wood makes my curiosity run far and fast and sometimes I can't catch it so I just let it go. But what if this door's song sings of the greatest love?
I know all these doors carry their real songs on the other side where the truth and the secrets and the lives really dwell.
Do I want the song of the door side I see to be true? Authentic to the rooms behind?
How many of them like faces with eyes are practiced? Facades that manage their outcome. Do I really want to hear all of the voices and know all the secrets inside? I think not.
And yet, the charm and notch and knockers and ivy and peep holes and color of each one carry mystery and story and I want to stand by them all.
And yet, the charm and notch and knockers and ivy and peep holes and color of each one carry mystery and story and I want to stand by them all.
When I see my porch I ponder there too because inside it is my story. One only God and I will ever fully know. It's messy and beautiful and sad and miraculous.
My hope would be this...if you push inside and see my mess, stay long enough and dig deep enough to find love.
My hope would be this...if you push inside and see my mess, stay long enough and dig deep enough to find love.
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