Behind Closed Doors

            I have a fascination with doors. I take lots of photos of doors wherever I go. Recently I found no shortage of doors that interested me in Mexico, but the same has been true no matter where I go.  I love the rich colors some people paint doors, while others shine natural wood to a sheen you can almost see your reflection in. Doors with windows are particularly fun because sometimes you can actually see what is behind the door, although door windows have curtains over them. My favorite is when they are covered with lace. Others are boldly bare daring you to look right in.            Doors can be Spartan, a statement in their own right. But many doors are flanked with flowering bushes or containers filled with seasonal flowers. The can be ornate, simple, artistic, or boring.            What is about doors and me? Other people have commented they share the same obsession. I’ve decided that writers are particularly drawn to doors for a logical reason. It’s not so much the door, but the story that lies behind the door that grabs us. We’re a curious lot, not satisfied to simply look at an entrance and say, “Nice door.” No, we want to know more. Who lives behind the dilapidated door where the paint peeled off decades ago and the only thing growing in the cracked planter next to it are a couple of old cigarette butts and an empty nip or two?              The door can be a clue to what is actually happening behind it or it can unleash the imagination allowing a writer to guess what goes on inside. What is with the guy who lives behind the ornate red door with the brass kick plate and elaborate handle? Is he just confident or is he flamboyant?              And that lady with the periwinkle door? Matching flags, twin black pots with identical plants, lanterns, even her gnomes come in sets. Is she a perfectionist or does she just have too much time on her hands? Maybe she should take a lesson from her free-spirited neighbor with the yellow door, who seems content with a whimsical pot of unmatched plants.            The person behind the crimson door with yellow trimmed panels must be an artist. Who else would dare to combine those colors? But his untrimmed shrubs suggest he has a lazy streak. I wonder if he should visit the woman behind the rounded midnight blue door with the welcoming two red Adirondack chairs next to it waiting for a chat and a glass of ice tea.             The ornate white door must belong to a European aristocrat who never gives a thought about his door as long as someone opens it and has a G & T waiting for him after his long day at the embassy where he is consorting with spies from a foreign country long at odds with his own.             A writer can do well during a dry spell to turn off the laptop and lace up her walking shoes. Take to the streets, study those doors you are passing by, and ask yourself, “What’s going on in there?”            Just don’t get me started about windows. What do you think about when you pass by a door? Share in the comments or join the discussion on Facebook.  

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