And we start a group. We have each other, our pastor and our baggage.
We joke about loving Jesus. Handsome Jesus. Is there a Jesus Vibrator? (I think there must be, since I KNOW they make a Jesus Toaster)
We try and keep it on the up and up about blame and angst with our (ended) marriages/partners.

We are reading a book about doorways as metaphors for life-stuff.
The other night we were asked to meditate on what the door to our heart looks like. What’s behind it, what does the door look like, what’s around it… And there were art supplies for us to gobble up with our hot little hands (I love it when my worlds collide. This is exactly what we do in my childbirth classes)

Of course I’m all crazy into this. Right Brain – Sing It! I already know that I’m going to draw a Secret Garden door. A door that is aged and weathered. Covered with earth and vines and flowers. One that creaks open with flecks of rust and a heavy, weighty handle. It will be dark and savage and beautiful in the garden of my heart. And the door will sigh with grief, and release, and pleasure. And it will smell earthy and moist.

And then I start.

A crude version of a realistic heart appears. Where is my romantic secret garden door? Oh. That door was in my head. What I *wish* my door would look like….

I keep going though. And there! There it is… a door that is so tiny in the heart. There are fireworks in front of the door, all around the door. And a circus! And a parade! And a marching band! All these distractions. Because the distractions are so fun. Stephanie is a party! She’s so Quirky! Unusual! (pay no attention to the door behind the fireworks)

And then the picture of what is behind the door begins to immerge… And it’s a figure on her knees, with her head tilted back, arms open at her side. Similar (for you yogis) to camel pose. Similar (for you BFW folks) to Inanna on the hook. Just complete openness with heart bared open. Flayed Willingly. And it’s quiet and still behind the door. There isn’t a party. No fireworks. No fancy food. Just me.

AND I BAWL MY EYES OUT.
The last time anyone looked past the fireworks, the circus, and saw the stillness and just accepted me, was the most incredible time of my life. It wasn’t just another person who did that, it was also the time where *I* was doing that for myself.

And then the door was left open. Neglected. Left behind. And it almost killed me.
Yet I kept searching, yearning to have that feeling back. Wanting to invite someone, anyone into that place again. But not really. I drew an Orange Tightrope walker in front of the open door and scrawled “Don’t Fall” I know that inside place is SO GOOD. To have it rejected though. Even potentially. Makes me want to curl up in a fetal position and never come back. So I balance, teetering. I *know* that to live authentically means to be open. To love deeply, you must… love deeply. To live in fear is to not live at all. BUT. BUT. BUT…..

I hear Maude in my head saying to Harold after he as professed his incredible love for her “Oh! That’s wonderful! Go and Love some more!”

And I want too. It means I could fall though.

I’m floundering with questions and puddling with grief.



Then one of the ladies said “Hearing you talk, I just realized that I have a fake door”.



And hearing her say that….. I swear my inner lightbulb exploded.



Of course.



We dived deeper into this metaphor for ourselves. And began to understand that my “fake” door, was of course just the first door. An entry, if you will, to the mudroom of my heart. With stunning clarity, I understand how by opening that front door, I initiate a process that felt like “opening” and it is/was, not in the deep, connecting way I imagined I was flirting with. And of course how there are people who are never even invited past the front door.



I also can see how it’s a relationship that moves together past the mudroom. Someone else may be ready to really see and open that tiny door, maybe I’m not though. And same – I could be ready to fling that door open, and perhaps they are still struggling to get their shoes off and are admiring the artwork – and not ready to cross that tiny threshold.



My tightrope walker has retired her tutu (despite how cute it is). The fireworks and the parade are still going on, they are a part of me too. I do love me up some slutty high heel shoes and dancing on tables after all. And I know that my tender parts, they are being kept safe. And rather than be scattered willy-nilly, they know they will be revealed with tenderness. Not trotted out like a show monkey.



I feel a sense of safety with this metaphor. I can see how to hold myself precious and protected, and yet still deepen relationships. I can see where to open, notice within myself what feels vulnerable. I can also hold others in the “holding tank” of my mudroom and see if I want them to take their shoes off, walk barefoot, into the stillness and depth of my heart. Where it’s not a party. It’s a deep, quiet, savage, strong place. Where I love deeply, sometimes scarily. Passionately. Where sometimes the laughter is so loud because it comes deep from my belly. Where I am held by Grace.