How the door left open is a threshold to a new world, which we fear to go through. How the broken birdhouse tips the baby birds into each other till the one leaned on most takes the longest to fly. How the patch of wildflowers tries to drink of the fast-moving river. I confess I’ve been leaned on till I forgot how to fly. But I’ve been opened by simple kindnesses till others thought I was a doorway left open. They tried to go through me. In the beginning I felt violated, only because they didn’t ask. Now, years later, it seems this is my purpose: to be a doorway to all that can’t be closed. Yesterday, I watched dawn open its chest, letting all that light pour into the world. Today, I looked into the eye of a blind horse and saw its dream of endless fields. I know I have such a blindness in which I run. I know we carry dawn within us, though we search for it everywhere. How I’ve searched a thousand stories, listening for what keeps us going. When in pain or sensing great care, I’ve felt a beautiful sameness, as if the ache of being here is the breath of center we all come from and return to.