Some people open doors, others close doors. Some walk blindly past each and every door, and quite a few just can’t muster the motivation to even try another entry; they remain content in their safety of what they already think they know, a self-imposed prison confining one’s potential. Me? Life has been damn good to me in that department. The Janitor, named Jesus, God, Buddha or whatever you like to call your Higher Power glides on a set of mercury laced rollerblades, a massive chain of infinite keys in hand, unlocking or just flicking doors open of every imaginative shape and color. Bleeding red doors, overgrown mossy green doors, powder pink doors, you name it. Open left and right, straight ahead or behind me, often leaving me puzzled or spending too much time gazing at what lays beyond each cavernous portal.
I walk at a steady pace now and I don’t see doors. The hallway is barely even lit but for the breath of illumination shining over each canvas, the contents of possibility neatly laid out in a frame. A borrowed Home Depot cart is dragging from my left hand as I push onward, loaded with a gallery of compelling selections to hang in my own home.
I pulled the trigger to get my yacht certification, not because it defines any commitment to “peace out” to sea and abandon the Madison life I was reborn into, but to remove the limitation of passing on opportunity. I’ve already had to forego three six-figure offers from three different billionaires on three very opulent superyachts as I don’t have the proper credentials. That’s not happening again. See you Monday, Fort Lauderdale! After that I’ll just have to paint and see.
Secret: “In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there, and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself”
Song: Back Door Man, The Doors