Open it again. It’s a door. That’s how they work.
Ok, I wish I could take credit for that quote, but I found it on the internet. Another personal favorite is “If you can’t be a good example, at least serve as a terrible warning.” But I digress. Back to doors.
Spending a few days wandering the medieval village streets, I started to slow down, to look, to actually see the little details around me. A flower sprouting from between the rocks in a wall, a hand painted wooden mailbox, a tangle of thorny vines with blackberries, ripe for picking. And the doors. I realized that each one was totally different and beautiful in its own way.
The village is hundreds of years old. When it was built, the streets were made to be wide enough for a horse and carriage. There were no cars, no electricity, no phones. Can you imagine the generations, the changes, all of the people who have lived in these homes? And still they stand, gaining character, the edges smoothing and polishing with time. The old stone steps have hollows and grooves worn into them from the millions of footsteps that have pattered up and down them, first leather sandaled feet, today Nike. And still, they stand. Upon encountering a new, modern home outside the village, it seemed sort of weird. Fake and plasticky somehow.
Here are some of the doors I was taken by.