I've been dreaming of doors lately. Doors, hallways, knobs — both familiar and otherwise. I dreamt that I was locking my college dorm door, that I couldn't open my high school locker, that the door to my childhood closet kept opening and closing on its own.
I know, I know, the symbolism is obvious. All these starts and stops, beginnings and endings. It's just something about your 20s, though, isn't it? These tend to be the transition years, the here-to-there years. There's so much passing through during this time, so much arriving and leaving. Schools, jobs, cities, relationships — there's so much movement. A lack of permanence.
When I talk to other friends in this phase — this shifting, stirring stage — it seems that all of us are just trying to steady ourselves. To anchor ourselves to something still, something lasting.
I dreamt of my old summer camp cabin, the rickety wooden door to Cedar Lodge that squeaked on its rusted hinges. The metal screen curled back on itself, copper and covered in dust, while nails poked out in all the wrong places. It was the same wooden door that campers had built decades earlier — nothing at camp was ever replaced unnecessarily. It closed, it opened: The door was fine.
I dreamt that I opened the door to Cedar Lodge and found hundreds and hundreds of pastel-colored feathers falling from the ceiling. Pale pink and yellow and tangerine — sunset shades that looked strange and out of place against the dark, damp wood. They fell in big, soft clumps, but I couldn't seem to catch them in my hands. The feathers kept falling through.
All this is to say that... well, actually, I'm not really sure. Dreams and doors and years and feathers — nothing of it quite makes sense. Nothing obvious, anyway. Hope, maybe? Promise? Faith?
I'll settle on those for now. Hope and promise, faith.
That's what seems to carry us through all these starts and stops, isn't it?
(Photo: My Flickr)