There is a door 🚪in front of me today. The door is there every moment, because the door is each moment. Behind this door, within the moment, is life. Life is nowhere else- only here, only now, in this moment. That’s the nature of life- it only happens when and where it is, and then it’s gone.
I’m afraid of this door. For lots of reasons, most of which I can’t even articulate. So I very rarely walk through this door. Actually, I very actively avoid it. But it’s always there, in front of me, open and waiting.
The door looks like all kinds of things. Sometimes it’s my wife. My kids. Time alone. A book. A meal. Even my work. Every time, God is there. It’s where God lives. Also, every time, I am there- the real me. Whatever is true and real, is there.
Everything outside this door is unreal. It’s fantasy. My fantasy. Some of this fantasy is wonderful. Ironically, most of it is horrible. Worst case scenarios and people’s worst possible impressions of me are here, outside the door, outside of the moment, outside of reality.
Why do I work so hard to stay outside this door when everything I want is inside, and my worst nightmares are outside? I don’t know. I think it has to do with fear. But I have a feeling it has even more to do with control.