Darwin answered, "A door."
"Yes, good," I said, "that's a door. And what do we do with doors?"
Many answers poured forth: we go out, we go in, we close them and open them. All good. I pointed to the classroom door and said, "Is that door open or closed?"
"Closed!", they exclaimed, as if I were so silly that I didn't know a closed door from an open one.
Then Kevin spoke up in his solemn voice. "I have to say something," he declared. He thought for a long moment and then said, "First you can not close a door unless you open it."
He was talking about literal doors. That's not what I heard. To me it was the second chapter of my personal ring saga. For me to be able to close the door on my past life, I had to be willing to open it up, to take a chance on the pain of taking off those rings that symbolized Mark's and my love and our commitment to each other. I have to recognize that that door is now closed but I can open another one. Early I wrote about being a "liminal person", standing on the threshold of who knows what. Maybe someday I'll have the courage to step through that door.