Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler


oh how we split, splinter, fracture and fall. how we divide to conquer.

the dual, the contrasting, the one but not the other.

dark and light, in and out. majority rule.

i suppose we must separate sometimes, to survive. to explain and convince and love without hating. to hold without releasing.

or how would we possibly make sense of the confusion between us?

we have had to break ourselves in half because if we didn’t, how could the desire and the anger,

how could the fear and the trust,

reside in the same body?

and so we sleep and breathe and live our lives with the split down the middle,

we become fragments and shards,

until ultimately,

the edges are just so sharp

and we are wading through a minefield

of pieces.

some people
when they hear
your story.
upon hearing
your story.
this is how

~Nayyirah Waheed, from Salt

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

white room.

i have spent a lifetime clinging to those who would love me.

i know rejection, betrayal. of being too much and too loud and too needy.

so if you would love me, then i would stay loyal through my own reservation.

and then the electric buzz, the shaking. the broken blood vessels. the passing out. the breath that couldn’t be caught. the lexapro.

because forgive does not mean forsake. you does not mean the absence of me.

eventually, the fog will lift. and everything will be on the table just exactly where it was left.

and i will sit in this white room, emptied of distraction.

still grateful. still understanding. but rising with a tide that cannot be restrained.

terrified. sudden. still.


the moment
want it to


~nayyirah waheed,  from Salt

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

the wonder of such things.

i sift through the assigned values. a life well spent. worth while. lived hard and run free. time off and time on. hard won and easy coming.

i know how to spit and cuss, answer and call, bend down and lift up, gaze and unravel.

i know dirt and sand and a few things from books and classrooms, churches and temples. i know love and commitment. i know the tastes of pomegranate and ginger.

i know the tax and utility of the machinery, of the musts and the unyielding.

i know concession and forgiving, gluttony and parch, empathy and emptiness.

and yet there is so much i have forgotten. lapses in time and doing, where, when, how.

making a list seems bothersome when there is a universe of stars and a sternum to pry up.

solitude, submersion and synapses are my current obsessions.

i am curious whether something will actually be born of this culmination of being. some thing prolific that you can someday hold in your hand. a book, a memory, a purpose that is radiantly clear.

it is drifting father away, though, less frantic and more habit, the wonder of such things. so much more, i am taken by the brazen idea of making fire, of putting my whole self in the flames,

and being consumed by light.

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler

the new.

we stripped the dining room table in time for 2015, finding a way to make new that which remembers the nourishment and the countless spills.

it is kind of like that, each reinvention. thick varnished layers need to be removed with chemicals and elbow grease, to reveal the still solid and beautiful beginning.

among the things i was grateful for in the past year:

fire, friendship, tequila.

burning, releasing, letting go (the usual).


the opportunity to see more of the world. again.

mirrors, hunger, decisions, connection, gathering, dinners, my family, the truth.

time in nature, sleep.

those that have stayed, those that have left.

humility. oh blessed humility.

the unhooking.

the quiet.

the awakening.

thank you for the new.

i am moving into a year of light, of lightness of being, of strength without burden.

and i am ready to be seen again.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a
Every inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is
spread with the same,

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs,
of men and women, and all that concerns
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

~Walt Whitman,  from Poem of Perfect Miracles

Categories: other

Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler