Tuesday, January 30, 2018

It’s a snowy day, and a school-is-cancelled snow day. After an indoor morning of prayer, writing, and cleaning, I am happy to see that the winds and driving snow have given way to a light breeze and an occasional snowflake. I put on my winter clothes and walk into nature’s crystal white. My street has been plowed, but no one is outside. It’s just me until I turn onto High street. A mother and daughter are shoveling their driveway a few houses down, and the two little girls who live in the big white house are making angels while their mother and uncle look on. Once every minute or so, a car or truck passes. In between, there’s only the scrape of shovels and the crunch of boots to break the peaceful quiet of this place.

No one’s walked on the sidewalks in the past few hours, and only a couple of homeowners have cleared the sections in front of their houses. I think I see the faint print of a boot every so often – someone who walked early in the morning, perhaps. Just like Peter in Keats’ The Snowy Day, I make different patterns in the snow by pointing my feet in or out, or by dragging them to make two long lines. It’s one of my favorite children’s books, one I loved as a young child and I loved as the mother of young children. As I make my marks in the snow, I wonder how many other people have done the same because of Keats’ words and pictures – millions, I’d guess.

The wind has made snowdrifts across parts of the sidewalk and swept other parts almost clean. Mother nature seems happy to give my feet a varied path and my eyes a feast of snowy geometry and graceful evergreen. I’m so glad I came outside. I wouldn’t have missed the sharp fresh air, the joy of this walk, or the beauty of my blanketed neighborhood for anything.

I’m on my fourth day of deep cleaning, working my way around the kitchen and into the side entry hall. All my baking supplies have been taken out and sorted, the cupboard cleaned inside and out, and goods replaced. After I shut the cupboard doors, only the faint scent of peppermint soap and vinegar gives any indication of the changes within. It’s only when I open the doors that the impact of my work can be seen.

It only takes a quick glance to appreciate the cleaning efforts in my side entry hall. Scuff marks are gone from baseboards, fingerprints and dirt removed from light switches. The magnets holding keys, bags, sunglasses, and mail are bright and shiny, as is the metal board that holds them to the wall. These are the things that anyone coming into the house might see. But it’s what most of us don’t notice that captured my attention today: doors.

There are three in my entry hall: separating the outdoors from the inside, leading to the cellar, and a usually hidden recessed door marking the entry to the kitchen. The two I can see mark and maintain the transitions from one space to another, keeping cold winds and rain from coming in and people from taking a tumble down the basement stairs. The one that’s usually hidden in the wall can keep my two cats away from people allergic or afraid of them, and provides an extra barrier to the cold if a snowstorm knocks out the power. The ability to connect and separate, to protect and invite, standing silently within arm’s reach – this belongs to these rectangular creations of wood and glass.

Hiding and revealing, connecting and separating, opening and closing. Keeping watch over the space that goes from one place to another. Marking transition from one reality to another: it’s often said that silence, prayer practices, and worship are doors to the great mystery of God. Through them the Spirit draws me into a love far deeper than I can see or imagine. Perhaps I should pay attention to these doors as well. Who knows where I might find myself when one opens and I walk on through.