The blue door.

The Blue Door, northern hill tribes, Laos

Composed by Belinda Rogers

 

Each stone was soft as though filled with water.  Warmed from the Sun, my footsteps sinking, almost forgotten.   Grey upon yellow, splinted light fractured the sliding slates of mind.

I was late, silvers had passed.  A blue door swung from it’s hinge in the sky.  I had lost my shoes long ago and my hair was gone. I had passed the opening but arrived late for the place which held no time.

I wavered, but the softness of water held me upright.  I pushed hard against it’s knowledge.  I wanted it to break, for ideas to fall, but they refused.

I stared at the stones.  Picked them from the cloud and threw them away.

More came.

I paced in my predicament.  I had walked so far, only to arrive like this.

Grey emerged and the yellows became brighter.  Ten thousand dawns folding upon themselves. The door was burning.

I was too late.

‘Answers do not come if you are already holding one’. it said.

I drop my stone.

‘I am tired’,  I say.

‘You waste a lot of energy and a lot of paint’, it replied, staring at the state of my skirt.

‘I am not good enough yet.  I need the practice’.

The door laughed.  ‘That is why you are here?  Practice?’

‘No’. I say, ‘I need an answer’.

‘The answer is in the practice. Go away and come back again. Come back when you have forgotten the question’.

‘But if I let it go, it will multiply, just like these stones!  LOOK! I shout, throwing them into the fire, they appear again at my feet.

I cry.

It begins to rain.

Fire retreats, Yellow and grey and the cloud is gone.

I cannot knock.

There is no Bell.

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