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Knock Knock. Who’s there? Open Doors

Merriam-Webster.com defines a prologue as “the preface or introduction to a literary work”. The epilogue, on the other hand is “a concluding section that rounds out the design of a literary work”. Together with the action they sandwich, they make a nice neat package.

With this in mind, I have been thinking about the phrase “when one door closes, another one opens”. It is a hopeful saying that inspires you to look for the next door. And, whether the previous door was closed on you or by you, there is forward motion. Once we conclude one chapter in life, we can move on to the next. Perhaps it will be a more pleasant chapter … or even a brand new book.

It is an inspiring thought, but one that I find to be too neat. Why? Because there are times in my own life … many times … ok, most if not all of the time … that I cannot quite keep that last door closed. Great drafts of air pull elements from previous closed doors in through the new doors. And, everything is mixed up in a great jumble of epilogues and prologues, chapters and books.

Am I Doing it Wrong?

Maybe I’m doing it all wrong, but I can’t seem to keep my chapters, or even my books, from bleeding into each other. True, in the “when one door closes” saying, nothing says the door will stay closed. But, there are times when it seems my own doors have the structural integrity of curtains (sheers, not even drapes). And, there is often little to no warning when one of those drafts from the past is about to sneak through … no time to even throw on a sweater.

Demons v Blessings

Case in point: one of our latest adventures, the one with the home devouring destructive little demon insects (I feel the right to name call and hold a grudge here); the one that literally pulled the rugs out from under us (ok… that was me, but I had to put them away while our home was being rebuilt around us); the one involving honesty-challenged persons (again, justified grudge)… THAT adventure supposedly came to an end. We have, after all, quite literally moved on … and away. We closed that door, handed over the keys, and have stepped though other much more welcoming doors which have since opened. Nevertheless, every so often, and quite frequently without warning, consequences of that ordeal slip through and send frigid drafts into our current lives. It can be frustrating … maddening.

Not everything resulting from that regrettable time in our lives is negative, mind you. I made friends I otherwise would not have met. We added an adorable kitten with a huge personality to our family (Thankful for the Spaces Between the lines). And, I am rounding the corner on completing the draft of a book. One that I hope will warn others away from similar predicaments. Told in a way that may elicit a chuckle or two. But, these are elements I chose to bring through the next door…

What Doesn’t Kill Us…

This, by the way, has lead me to ponder something. Since the deceptive acts of those dishonest people caused the pain and suffering that followed … do I also need to recognize them as responsible for the good resulting from those same actions?

After much thought and deliberation (and the memories of a child convalescing from double lung surgery in a windowless room, sealed as much as possible from the thick polluted air of a construction site: Marathon) my answer to myself has been a resounding NO. The fact that “what didn’t kill us made us stronger” does not, in my book, mean that we have to turn around and write a thank you note to “what tried to kill us.”

The Point?

But, that is not the point here. What is the point? Well, maybe there isn’t one. I’m not in any way qualified to teach lessons or bestow wisdom. Sometimes the point is simply to get something written down on “paper”. At times we need to purge it out where it can be examined.

I guess, in this case, it is simply a matter of examining a personal experience and coming to a realization: there are no doors, not permanently closed ones, at least. Shit gets through even our best designed barriers. We can either drag it along like the baggage it is, or try to weave it into the fascinating quilt that each person’s journey becomes. You know, like those wonderfully talented people we see on the internet who take garbage and turn it into art.

Epilogue

I suppose it doesn’t matter, in the end, where the prologues and epilogues are in the various stories of my life. I suppose the true epilogue comes at the very end. Or … could that simply be the prologue to the many new stories of My Moon, My Sun, and Little Man?

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