Doorways. Closed and Open.

First of all, Kyrie passed away this winter. The day after Christmas. I made the choice to say goodbye to her when her ailments had become too much; and I don't regret it, and I do, which is the way of such things. At some point I will probably have a great deal to write about grief. So that is a closed doorway. So is this, to start with. There is a doorway in the back of your mind. Beyond it is everything you need to know to write your stories. Everything you need is already there, waiting. The memory of your eighth-grade teacher who everyone was afraid of. The smell of popcorn crushed and rotting in the sun at the amusement park. The look in the eyes of your favorite and most beloved pet when you told them what a good creature they were and how much you loved them. The characters that live in your brain like a cast of disembodied voices. All of it. To reach for it, you need to take the steps. It will not come to you. Narnia will not find the door from the opposite side and tell you that it's time to come in. Or perhaps it will. Or already does. And these are the times we think about sitting down to write. Or to paint. Or to art in whatever way is our way of arting. But then, for whatever reason, we don't. Those calls are weak, apparently. We want the bolt of lightning. We expect to be swept off our feet. Until then, we wait. You will be waiting forever. Wake up. Show up. Move the first move. Open the door of the wardrobe. Push past the coats and stodgy rubber boots and floppy, moth-eaten mittens. Step out into the winter of your neglected creativity. Become its hero. Fight for the turn of its seasons. Create. And that is an open door.