Doors...like eyes... are guardians of story.

       Why do these thresholds pull me close and still my feet? Why do I photograph porches and doors and look at other people's door pictures? I find myself longing. Some are just so beautiful that I want to sit there and be part of it. Others speak of mystery and I feel my curiosity pumping through my blood and I want to know the story. 

     As I linger and photograph 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. 

     No. That's a lie. I want to feel the knob in my hand. Invade and go all the way to the back porch and  sit in the swing where hearts dwell.

     Why do I imagine what inside and beyond. These doors aren't mine. It's not my right.
     But still there is a compelling that holds me. Could it be that because I think it's beautiful that it invites me to stay? Perhaps not. But something draws me back. 

     I have photographed the same porches in all four seasons. And as I stand there knowing its the same door I photographed in January with a snow drift blocking it's way, now, in late Spring, it feels completely changed. The cold dark winter beauty of it lit up at night by a golden lantern, is now soft and sunny and ivy covered. It's dewy. A sea green planter sits beside the door now with a thriving pink Mandevilla vine stretching out as as if trying to touch me. And in the Fall, as the colors and light and shadows change again everything becomes new all over. Do they know how beautiful I think there porch is? Have they ever seen the stranger taking pictures from their yard? I truly have no idea? 

     

     Imagine doors like the first notes of a song. A song that continues behind it. One that I can't hear. I imagine both beautiful, and sometimes, sad hard melodies, finishing themselves on the other side.  

     Does a beautiful door mean that beautiful people live behind it? Maybe it does. Probably not.  Maybe, like lipstick and mascara, these pretty porches are trying to put on a good face. Are they a pretense? Just because the first notes of a song are beautiful doesn't mean the song won't be sad.
     And where is it exactly in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, of things old and broken and faded, do I see beauty? I'm not sure. But I do.  I think it's in the stories of the lives lived there. In the scarred wood and cracked door. Sometimes it fills my curiosity with sadness so I have to let it run far and fast so I can't catch it. And then I think, "What if this door, so full of scars and cracks holds the greatest of love?" 

     I know that behind all these doors are the truths and the secrets and the tears and the love. 
     Do I want the beginning of the song I hear on my side to be true? Authentic to the rooms behind it? 

     And do I really want to hear all of the voices and know all the secrets inside? I think not.

     And yet, the charm of notches and knockers with ivy, the mystery and magic of peep holes, all carry a story that I want to hear.   

       And when I see my porch, I ponder there too, because inside my door is my story. It's a beautiful song. Parts of it are hard and sad. Parts of it are scary. But the melody is filled with the joy of a family and the end is a crescendo of glorious redemption. It's our song. Paul's and mine, so I'll take it. It's one that only God and us will ever truly know. 

     And in the end, my hope would be this...

     When you see my porch, please come inside my door. You will no doubt find a mess somewhere, but please stay long enough to feel the love here. And I promise you there will be a song.