Tag: Doors

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Doors, by Lewis Thompson

There have likely been a few million types of doors throughout history and many purposes for which doors have been employed, privacy and security chief among them. The most important thing to know about any door, however, is not what it’s made of or how large or small or how old or intricate its design. No, the only thing that really counts when it comes to doors is whether they are open or closed.

You can tell a lot about a person from knowing how cautious they are about keeping their doors locked. One person on my floor locks her door even when she leaves her apartment to do her laundry at the other end of the hallway.

Some commercial enterprises advertise that their doors are always open. This past weekend was the occasion of the annual Doors Open Denver–a chance to see parts of the city that may not normally be accessible to the unwashed.

In the history of Western Civilization, the most famous door was probably the stone that covered the entrance to the tomb where Jesus’ body was placed following his crucifixion. Had it never (as legend has it) been mysteriously opened, one of the world’s great religions may well have never taken root.

When I was a boy, we had a small ranch house with a single-car, attached garage. The roll-up door was not powered. I used to catch grasshoppers, pull off their hind legs and put them in the track of the open garage door and then close it so that the roller would pass over them. Did you know that grasshopper guts look like long orange grains of rice?

It seems to me that some people are like closets full of treasures behind locked doors. It’s as if they believe that exposing themselves would tempt others to do them harm. Or perhaps they think that others would be disappointed in what was revealed. I used to be one of these people, shut up behind a closed door. I thought if others could see me in the light, they would think I was ugly. But, at long last, one person gently knocked on my door and invited me to come out. I found out that opening the door let the light in and the fear out. Now, I always try to leave the door unlocked with a welcome sign on it.

© 27 April 2015

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Doors, by Gail Klock

Buzz, the dull sound of
an institutional doorbell summons the matron with the keys. Footsteps can be
heard descending the stairs. Click, goes the first lock, up two flights of
stairs, then click opens the metal mesh door into the plainest, most
unattractive physical setting you can possibly imagine. A space which lacked
color and texture, the walls and floors an unpainted concrete; no pictures,
wall hangings, or changes of surfaces to detract from the bleakness; no shelves
holding objects of interest. It was a grey world. Visiting my grandmother didn’t
take place in an over the hills and through the woods fashion. We entered
through the locked doors of the mental institution in Pueblo where she was a
patient. She seemed quite “normal” to me. She was dressed like all the other
female patients in non-descript shifts which left you guessing as to the shape
of the wearer. The men were dressed similarly in the same institutionalized
green material with pants that had drawstrings and loose fitting tops. All the
women had the same hair style, one I could have administered as a kid, hacked
off at the neck line.
The room was large and
open, a few tables scattered here and there and lots of empty space. Some of
the patients were moaning to themselves rocking back and forth sitting on the
floor, and others were very intensely playing with their private parts. My
mother and other family members never did know what the diagnosis for my
grandmother was, my guess is clinical depression which was triggered by the
death of her husband at an early age shortly after the diagnosis of his brain
cancer. My grandmother’s behavior didn’t bother me, nor did the actions of the
more severely impacted patients, but the locked doors did. She had been
stripped of her freedom to move about as she liked and to spend time with her
loving family. She lacked the necessary keys to escape this captivity, to
regain her freedom and become all she was capable of becoming.
Fortunately, I’ve had
these keys available to unlock the restrictive doors of life, but I’ve often misplaced
or used the wrong ones in trying to open the doors to happiness.  As a child trying to maneuver through life
without the emotional support of loving adults I developed childish strategies
to protect myself from being hurt and disappointed by loved ones. I played
Simon and Garfunkel’s, “I Am a Rock,” over and over as a college student. I so
identified with the idea of being a rock which felt no pain, and an island
which never cried.  But I didn’t have the
wisdom or guidance to realize a rock doesn’t feel love and an island doesn’t
laugh. The keys I needed to use were the ones which led me through the door of
vulnerability.
Several instances, which
have occurred recently in my life, have given me insight into the desirability
of being vulnerable.   During about the third round of chemo, simply
walking a few steps was exhausting and almost impossible and the myriad other
physical feelings when sitting still were equally horrible. It was at this
point that I realized, “it is what it is.” I can’t fight the feelings, I can’t
change the feelings, I can only live with them. Once I acknowledged the
situation and accepted it for what it was a sense of peacefulness descended
upon me. I knew I was okay and would continue to feel better and better. There
were no longer doors separating me from others, somehow they had sprung open
and I felt more one with the universe. I can’t explain this further, but I felt
a shift in energy.
After my last surgery in
2012 I slowly embarked on the physical healing process which allowed me to return
to playing basketball, an activity I love with my heart and soul. This process
has been slow, at first just getting the ball to the basket was all I could
manage. I didn’t step foot in a scrimmage on the court with others for at least
six months, and when I first did it was with trepidation. The surgery had been
very complex and had involved cutting and moving all of the nerves and muscles
in the hip joint.  Initially I could not
bend either my knee or hip. I asked my doctor if I could try playing again and
told her falling is part of playing and asked if this was a problem, she wisely
stated I might open the wound back up but I wouldn’t hurt anything. She must
have been an athlete herself to understand the significance and relative truth
of this statement.  It took a while for
me to get enough stability to play and it took longer to overcome my fear of
getting hurt. Now I don’t worry about getting hurt… it is what it is, when you
fall you get back up. You might have some bumps and bruises, but you also have
the joy of playing. It’s that one time when you execute the motion just right,
when you get the desired result, when the wholeness of your mind and body are
one, that makes it worth the bumps and bruises. I’ve unlocked the door to
physical vulnerability and have experienced the joy that was on the other side
of the doorway.
I’m well on my way to
accomplishing the same with my emotional life. Even in moments of emotional
isolation, which used to paralyze me with fear, I now realize I have the key
available to open the doors to great love and joy, to actualize the energy
available, which is represented by the concept of “it is what it is”, allowing
the doors to be unlocked. It is only through allowing myself to be emotionally
vulnerable that I will enjoy the greatest love of my life… yes there will be
some tears along with it, of that I am sure. 
But I’ve been that rock way too long, and it was a rather dull rock at
that, now I’m beginning to feel really alive. I feel like the hawk that soars
above, enjoying the warmth of the thermals, knowing it will soar with the wind
beneath its wings, knowing it’s not alone in life, and that all of life’s
forces work together… if only we use the right key.
© 27 Apr 2015 
About
the Author 
 I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents.
Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in
Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison,
Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend
graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached
basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake
Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and
Colorado School of Mines.
While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two
daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home
required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education
certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County
Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my
granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the
storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT
organizations.
As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter,
playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling
group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
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Doors, by Phillip Hoyle

Two doors controlled the comings and goings in our early 1940s Cape Cod house in Junction City, Kansas: the front door and the back door. Both were wooden, both had latches and locks, both greeted and debarred. The front door was made of oak, the backdoor of fir. The front door opened onto a stoop where in summer Mother tended flowers in planters; the back door opened onto a screened porch. A second back door to the porch was a frame with screens and a simple hook latch at about adult eye level. I liked the way the screen door whacked like a gunshot when we’d let the spring pull it closed from a full open position. The doors must have been quite strong for they withstood the abuse of two adults and five children, a dog and several cats, neighbors and neighborhood kids, all of whom provided a kind of Grand Central Station feel to the house. The house was open, the doors seldom locked.

Formal visitors used the front door. Even Santa Clause entered there; we had no fireplace. We kids used the backdoor usually because we played in the backyard, garage, or the yards of neighbors who lived across or down the alley.

Thus it almost seemed a ceremonial moment when Dad locked the front door with his key, a ritual that occurred annually when we went on our week-long family vacation. We’d drive west to the Colorado Rockies to cool off during the end of July or first of August. When we returned he would unlock the door and we’d hurry inside amazed at the size of the small house that now seemed so large, an effect of living for a week in a mountain cabin and spending too many hours in a crowded car.

So far as I know no one ever broke into our house. Perhaps it was the time and place or simply good luck. We all felt safe at home, but I learned more. Mother was threatened once when we kids were small. Dad was out of town. Late at night an unidentified man phoned saying he was going to come and get her and the kids. She was ill, hemorrhaging at the time. Following some home remedy, she got out the bottle of wine someone had given Dad for Christmas from a high shelf in the back closet, Dad’s double barrel shotgun out of their bedroom closet, and sat on the kitchen floor in view of both doors with the bottle at her side and the gun across her legs. “No one came to get anyone,” Mom told the story years later, “but if they had, and saw me, they surely would have fled the crazy drunk woman with the gun.” Of course, Mom didn’t open the wine bottle; just had it in case she needed it. With family stories like that, we kids felt safe at home. No one would ever dare come to get us.

I learned that a good door and attentive parents may be able to keep out unwanted visitors but not necessarily prying eyes. On summer nights when the temperatures soared way too high for comfort, my parents would sometimes sleep on the back porch on a double cot that folded out from the glider. I recall Mom’s story of the night she woke up to see a man staring at them through the screen. She sat up hurriedly, nudged Dad, and yelled, “You get out of here.” The Peeping Tom ran but didn’t see the wires of the clothes line that clocked him in the throat. Choking, he got up and ran down the alley. Dad called the police who located the man hiding in the trees at the high school sports field one block to the west. They identified him by the wire mark on his throat.

One night years later when I was in junior high and things were settling down for the night, Mom wearing her robe ran into the living room from the bedroom where she and dad were dressing or undressing, I don’t quite recall. She threw open the front door and looked out. I was surprised and asked, “What’s wrong?” She replied, “Someone was peeking in our window. I think it was Dinky.” I wasn’t surprised at that detail. Dinky was my rather creepy friend from across the alley who was always getting into trouble. In fact, for years when we kids played Monopoly and landed on the JUST VISITING border of the Jail we always said, “Just visiting Dinky,” who to us looked like the cartoon character peering through the bars. I think we were polite enough not to say it when he was playing with us. That night there was no call to the police, but I suspect my parents were more careful about closing the blinds while they were changing clothes. Still they rarely locked the doors except late at night when we kids were all safely in bed.

© 27 Apr 2015

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Doors, by Betsy

Ten years ago I was on the trip of a lifetime. This was not
my dream trip. That is, it was not a trip I had dreamed of going on all my
life. As I was approaching retirement several years earlier, I had dreamed of
hiking the Colorado Trail. After all, I had helped build the trail as a
volunteer on a couple of occasions when I had vacation time from work or a long
weekend. Unfortunately I never could realize the trek of my dreams because of a
condition in my spine which was causing pain when I was on my feet for long
periods of time. The Colorado Trail Trek door was closed.
So one day I decided instead to take a cycling trip. The “Bike
Trip Directors” website opened that door. It lead me to a group called Woman
tours. Perfect, I thought.  The door to
cycling had opened when I started participating in the MS 150 fund raising
event years earlier. Now I wanted a trip that would take me to other places and
for a longer stretch of time. Woman tours offered trips all over the U.S. and
some in Europe and Asia. A simple trip in the U.S. was what I was looking for.
This would open the door to something even bigger in the future maybe. 
So I laid the information and the maps out on the living
room floor and called to my partner Gill to take a look with me. “Oh this
week-long trip in the Mississippi Valley looks good. Or how ‘bout this one: 10
days on the Maryland coast, or the California coast.” So much to choose from.
Gill is just shaking her head. “Look at this. Pacific to Atlantic two months
across the southern tier of the U.S.”  “Well,
yeah,” said I. “But I’m
not ready for that. I need to take shorter trips first.”  Sometimes it takes someone who knows you very
well–a loved one–to bring you down to Earth–to reality.  Her words were so true: “My Darling, you will
be 70 years old this year. I think you need to do this cross-country trip NOW.”
The door thus opened to my trip of a lifetime, pedaling
from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida.  Sixteen women over 55 cycling for 58 days
through 7 states averaging 70 miles per day. We would have one day off per week
for rest and laundry. Pay up front and your food and lodging is covered for the
entire trip except for days off.
Our group of cyclists from this adventure has had a reunion
every year except for one. This year we will celebrate our tenth anniversary in
September near Cape Cod. Our friendships have grown over the years. The cycling
trip opened the door to many more cycling trips as well as the friendships
created on that trip.  Happily Gill is included
in the group even though she did not cycle. When I chose to do this trip, she
told me she would drop me off in San Diego and pick me up in St. Augustine. I
should have known. There was no way she was going to miss out.  Drop me off and then drive home. No way! She
never intended to do that. She followed us in the van and gave unofficial SAG
support the entire way. Oh, she would disappear for a day or two on a side trip
to some interesting site. But she always showed up again especially when needed;
such as, the day we ran out of water and could find no source nor was there any
sign of Bo-Peep, our official SAG. Or the day we were freezing cold from the
rain.
I have just recently completed transcribing my journal from
this trip which I dictated at the end of each day of riding. Here is a short
excerpt from 10 years ago almost to the day.
May10 Live Oak to High
Springs, Fla. Day 55

Last night we were in
Live Oak and I didn’t get a chance to record. We had a 100 mile ride yesterday
and it was quite amazing. I really didn’t feel very tired from it. It was a
beautiful ride. We have had lovely rides in Florida and we have been lucky in
that we haven’t
had much rain. Today we had one of the best rides of all.  We stopped about 20 miles outside of the town
of High Springs at High Springs State Park. We went into the park to one of the
springs and all went swimming. Great fun! It was a welcome break. It was only a
58 mile ride so we had plenty of time to enjoy the cool water.
We are at the Cadillac–a
50’s motel. Gill has
been quite active with the group the last few days sagging and helping the Kiwi’s with their filming. She’s enjoying that a great deal except she
will be camping in the parking lot again tonight.
I can sense some strong
feelings among the group about the tour coming to an end. Since there are just
two days left.  Etc.
May 13 St. Augustine Day
58
Yesterday was our
triumphal entry into St. Augustine. We met at the fire station after an easy
ride from Palatka. We were escorted by two police cars and a motor cycle,
sirens blaring. We dunked our tires into the Atlantic, true to tradition, then
we all ran gleefully into the surf holding hands and screaming making quite a
spectacle of ourselves. We played in the water and hung out on the beach for a
while. Some family and friends were there with flowers and greetings of all
kinds and it was a grand celebration.
I was quite emotional as
we rode ceremoniously into St. Augustine. It was an honor to be leading the
group along with Mary and Glenna as the oldest members. I was quite proud to be
one of the six who pedaled every mile with no sagging. A lot of that is luck.
 A group picnic followed by teary goodbye’s ended the day. Many would be on their
way home before breakfast tomorrow. Gill and I decided to stay for a couple
more days.
I am having trouble
focusing today since I am so used to focusing on push my pedals every day. I’m sure I will adjust to normal life
quickly.
The fact that we have
just pedaled across the country 3165 miles has not yet fully registered in my
head. I expect it will sink in at some point or maybe not. It’s a bit overwhelming. No question about it
. It was the trip of a lifetime and a most extraordinary experience with a most
extraordinary group of people.
There is no doubt in my mind. A door was closed to me when
I developed a condition in my spine. But, I believe when one door closes
another one opens up. When the hiking door closed the biking door opened. That’s why I love revolving doors.
©  27 May 2015 
About
the Author 
Betsy has been active in the
GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians
Organizing for Change).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending
time with her four grandchildren.  Betsy
says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life
with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.