Sliding Doors

In 1976, Mom had her own epiphany.

She was working as a cook at camp that summer, to help pay my tuition. It was a welcome relief for all of us, getting out of the heat of the Georgia summer.

That day, she had finished serving lunch, and walked through the woods to the little house where she was staying, the Meditation Hut. She lay down for a nap, her usual 5-minute refresher. But that one was different--she woke up with a shining new thought--"we will move to the mountains before the year is out." And we did. December, 1976, our family moved from a suburb of Atlanta to a little community in the middle of the NC mountains. Celo.

We lived in a house up the hill from the river--you had to cross a swinging bridge to get to it. I loved many things about that house: the porch swing, the bridge, the river, the sledding hill, the barns.

And I loved my room. I had my own window seat, looking out at the mountains.

The closets on each side of the window seat had sliding doors, and I loved to pretend they were elevators. I'd shove all the junk to the side (I was not a very organized child), and get in, sliding the door closed behind me. A brief pause--one, two, three, four--the door would slide open, and then, voila! I was in a whole different place! No end of fun.

It feels like the doors are sliding again now. Stories I've heard my whole life have begun to take on new meanings. Memories that used to be funny now seem poignant and powerful.

Interesting what happens when you slide the door closed and let yourself pause in the darkness.