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Doors open onto our homes, our cars, places of work, recreation, worship, stores, and other institutions; their variety reflects the imagination of the contractor: some hinged, some folding, others sliding, and still others rotating up and over, and most with locks. Crossing their threshold imperceptibly alters our energy.

The walls of Egyptian tombs in the Nile Valley depict the earliest reproductions of both the single and double doors, replete with symbols demarcating the sacred from the profane. Later, ornamental doors were found on mosques, monasteries, cathedrals, and temples, orienting the worshiper toward its mysteries.

Outside the precincts of sacred places, the doors of our homes are also sacred. Our choice keeps some inside; others, without.

Yet, another door lies closer to home, the door to our hearts; its challenge is to work with its promptings:  pause before opening it before whoever or whatever attracts. Then, discernment follows with questions: Who will benefit? What will I learn if I act? Or give in? Do lesser motives obscure its toxicity? Is neediness demanding to be satiated? Perhaps “No” is the wisest response when clarity is an issue.

Such practice deepens humility and opens the psyche to spiritual guidance, without which we stagnate.  Thus, we thrive in our flawed humanness and bring our unique gifts to fruition among others—the purpose of our existence, so I learned long ago but still slip up.

“You’re good to go,” said Tyrol seated behind the Plexiglas screen, his expansive chocolate eyes studying me over his mask. “And you’ll need this to get in,” he added handing me the card for the scanner on the nearby counter. I breathed easier, the afternoon sunshine bathing the foyer in light behind me. My admission to the YMCA was free with my Silver Sneakers eligibility. 

“Thanks for your help. You’ll never know,” I said smiling and inserting the card into my wallet.

True, I still have a terminal illness, Interstitial Lung Disease with Rheumatoid Arthritis; its progression, unpredictable. Since November 2019, the hospice nurses have counseled, “Just wait and take care of yourself. We’ll be back next week.” And they continue to come, noting signs of my decline in their computers: Evidence of my eighty-five + years unraveling my youthfulness. Then, I got tired of waiting for I knew not what.

In January 2021, I begin short walks in the neighborhood, with my helper’s support and my cane. How I relished the warmth of the sun, telltale signs of greening, and neighbors walking their dogs, having been housebound for so long.

With last week’s return of humidity, though, my spirit sank. In no way could I breathe. I needed an air-conditioned venue to continue my daily walks.

How I was led to the Silver Sneakers and the nearby YMCA is another story. Once inside, though, my crimped airways opened and relaxed. Lightness filled my lungs. My gait felt more steadfast, with less dependence upon my cane and none upon my helper, who followed me around the facility largely empty, save for a handful of seniors.

This will work, if I let it, one day at a time.

 

The doorbell rings.

Behind the screen door stands my plumber Rob, the beak of his cap shielding the morning sun from his eyes. I smile, knowing I am in good hands, skillful and sinewy. For years he has kept my kitchen and bathroom in good repair. More significant than his skill, though, are his cheerful manner, his willingness to address any problem, and solutions are found within the drawers of his battered toolbox or the compartments of his van. Unlike other plumbers I have had, he also wipes up watery streaked floors with paper towels that he carries with him, then disposes them.

On a deeper level, I view Rob’s lifelong profession from a spiritual perspective. Instead of wearing a suit and tie to work, he pulls on clean jeans, a red T-shirt, canvas shoes, this morning’s attire. Instead of scrutinizing proposals in boardrooms, he studies clogged sinks, leaking faucets. Instead of lunching at gourmet restaurants, he snacks in his truck, in between customers. Instead of ordering state-of-the-art adornments, he replaces worn fixtures or makes others serviceable. Such humble work has etched Rob’s servant-character, not unlike Jesus, beautiful to behold.

On an even deeper level, I liken Rob’s knack of cleaning up stinking messes and restoring water flow with Spirit’s action in human hearts, gone amuck with disorders. The process can be complicated, costly, even exhausting, but with the restoration of the flow of grace/water, exhilarating life returns in its myriad colors.

The Spirit-Plumber is still working on me.

 

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