Doors
3/27/06
"Story is meant to set the inner life back into motion again....Story solutions lessen fear, give does of adrenaline at just the right time, and most importantly for the captured naive self, cut doors into walls which were previously blank." Clarissa Estes, Phd. Women Who Run with The Wolves
Doors. They are exits and entrances, passages from one place to another. They may open inward or outward, slide or swing. No end to the materials from which they are made; they may be locked against the whirlwinds of the world or constructed of strings of beads that tinkle in welcome or adieu. I think of doors I have come across and remember first a blue one in Tunisia, then the closed one of my mother's office, a swinging mosquitoe netted one in a rented cabin in Algonquin National Park, Ontario, many hollow painted ones in hotels and motels around the world, the wonderfully sculpted entrance to the Ennis Brown, Frank LLoyd Wright designed house in Hollywood, a tiny under-the-stairs entry to a hidden closet.
Now I think of voices as kinds of doors. How we use them to invite someone in to play or admonish them to stay away. How we modulate them, letting them swing open and shut with our moods, our needs for distance or intimacy. How within the same conversation you can snare someone, lock them into your space and then kick them out again. How you can hold someone's heart and keep it forever behind your own door, checking on it every now and then with a peep through the cracked opening. How you might choose to reveal your own when you feel safe, if your own door can protect you. Eyes as doors, can do the same; reveal, repel, re-open.
And now words, how and when you choose to use them or not. How they are woven together, in nets that capture and rescue, into spears that pierce and wound, or bandages that soothe and heal, magnifying glasses that reveal otherwise hidden details. Words, the meat of stories, transport, as when listening to a teller either in person or taped. Even when read they can take you someplace else. This morning in a column about skid row, the writer describes how the adults have an unwritten code to protect the children from the worst of their new home. The first one to see a child approach calls out "Kid walking," and the rest hide crack pipes, cover naked skin, adjust their behaviour. Two simple words, with no narrative or decorative preparation hit my heart and bring tears to my eyes for all they represent, the images and feelings behind them. Newsprint as paper door into another world I would not have visited today.
We should really take care to understand where our doors are. And how our voices, eyes, language, lyrics and literature act as portals into and out of our many selves, our societies, our souls. And keep an eye on the keys.
"Story is meant to set the inner life back into motion again....Story solutions lessen fear, give does of adrenaline at just the right time, and most importantly for the captured naive self, cut doors into walls which were previously blank." Clarissa Estes, Phd. Women Who Run with The Wolves
Doors. They are exits and entrances, passages from one place to another. They may open inward or outward, slide or swing. No end to the materials from which they are made; they may be locked against the whirlwinds of the world or constructed of strings of beads that tinkle in welcome or adieu. I think of doors I have come across and remember first a blue one in Tunisia, then the closed one of my mother's office, a swinging mosquitoe netted one in a rented cabin in Algonquin National Park, Ontario, many hollow painted ones in hotels and motels around the world, the wonderfully sculpted entrance to the Ennis Brown, Frank LLoyd Wright designed house in Hollywood, a tiny under-the-stairs entry to a hidden closet.
Now I think of voices as kinds of doors. How we use them to invite someone in to play or admonish them to stay away. How we modulate them, letting them swing open and shut with our moods, our needs for distance or intimacy. How within the same conversation you can snare someone, lock them into your space and then kick them out again. How you can hold someone's heart and keep it forever behind your own door, checking on it every now and then with a peep through the cracked opening. How you might choose to reveal your own when you feel safe, if your own door can protect you. Eyes as doors, can do the same; reveal, repel, re-open.
And now words, how and when you choose to use them or not. How they are woven together, in nets that capture and rescue, into spears that pierce and wound, or bandages that soothe and heal, magnifying glasses that reveal otherwise hidden details. Words, the meat of stories, transport, as when listening to a teller either in person or taped. Even when read they can take you someplace else. This morning in a column about skid row, the writer describes how the adults have an unwritten code to protect the children from the worst of their new home. The first one to see a child approach calls out "Kid walking," and the rest hide crack pipes, cover naked skin, adjust their behaviour. Two simple words, with no narrative or decorative preparation hit my heart and bring tears to my eyes for all they represent, the images and feelings behind them. Newsprint as paper door into another world I would not have visited today.
We should really take care to understand where our doors are. And how our voices, eyes, language, lyrics and literature act as portals into and out of our many selves, our societies, our souls. And keep an eye on the keys.
posted by Barbery at 7:24 PM
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