Growing up I remember going in and out of the house, banging the screen door countless times a day. "Mom! Can I have a snack!" "Mom, can I go over to so-and-so's house?" "Mom, I just fell off my bike again, do we have any bandaids?" My best friend lived on the other side of the block and we could yell to each other from our bedroom windows. I'm not sure what the neighbours thought of our hollered conversations across their backyards, or why we didn't just use the telephone, but it worked for us. We take the openings in our homes for granted, but on a daily basis they usher us out into the world and then welcome us back in.
There's a sadness to the decay of this door I found in a small abandoned building on a hike recently. Someone carefully laid coats of paint on it, the door knob was polished by many hands going in and out, but now it sits quiet. Nettebar's window gives me the same feeling of melancholy. At some point in its history, all the panes were lovingly buffed and someone dreamed while looking out at the street or their garden.
But I like thinking of those openings as opportunities, whether they are in daily use or just markers of the past. Every day we put on our shoes and step out the door to welcome what comes next.
mosey of mosey along
window by Nettebar