January 21, 2013 § 2 Comments
I’ve been thinking lately about the thickness of the average front door. Ours is probably about 2 inches – if that. 2 tiny inches that can shut out the whole world. There’s a beauty in it; the privacy of our little cacoon, the joy on a snowy night when I trudge home and shut it behind me, the safety of a space that is just ours. It’s a gift, something that millions of people across the world are craving: privacy. Ownership. A sense of being home.
And I love it – our green front door.
But could it also be something more – something less precious, something far more dangerous? A barrier to strangers, a doubt placed in the mind of friends, a tool to keep us inside and switched off to the community that we live in?
What if two doors down from me there was a brothel, in which lived two girls, desperate for escape, but with a front door holding them in? That door may be my comfort, but it could be their despair. They could be my neighbours, my community, my sisters, but because the door is shut I walk past quickly; head down, arms folded, ipod in.
We’ve recently moved to the city and I tell you: everyone’s door is shut. It’s winter, I hear you say – but I am not talking about chills, I am talking about a city that is packed full of people who are wearing blinkers. Ignorance sure is bliss. But it’s also a limited luxury – available only to the untouched – and what kind of a bliss is that?
It’s barely more than illusion.
I think I’m going to start knocking on some doors.