Doors

[Disclaimer for brother Eric, on the off chance he might actually check this out: This is not about a classic rock band, or any Jim Morrison conspiracy theories.]

I photograph doors. Proportionately, a lot of them.

This quirk became evident recently, when I spent part of a sick day flipping through electronic photo files. I noticed that in almost all my folders, be they of Europe or Texas or family or even just downtown, tucked between snaps of the beefeaters and Lady Di's fountain would be an image of some random door or gate. Since I rarely take the time to label things, I have only the foggiest recollection of where these doors are, but I still find them compelling. 

I wonder why. I'd like to say it reveals something deep and significant, like maybe that I embrace change, or I'm always ready to pass on to that next stage in life. I suspect the truth to be something less positive (nosiness?).

There's a certain sense of mystery to doors. An unfamiliar door shields unknown things, possibly treasures, maybe horrors, maybe something interesting, probably just the mundane detritus of a life not much different than mine. But until the door is opened, it could be anything, and sometimes its fun to imagine what it might be. I felt this very strongly outside a residential gate in Lucerne, for instance; for some reason it seemed that those who lived there must be fascinating people doing fascinating things, and I wanted to meet them. Another time, I considered for a long time a worn door to an interior room in an old Spanish mission and imagined a selfless Jesuit on his knees or maybe a Native American child being punished for his waywardness. These are the entrances pictured here.

The mystery is enhanced by the interesting appearance of the doors I photograph. Many are rustic, some are ornate, but all are, to me anyway, aesthetically interesting. There is artistry here; some craftsman steeped in the lore of fine door-making wrought this. Surely a door so out of the ordinary must conceal extraordinary things! They suggest to me hippie communes, Tolkein-esque villages, Japanese tea gardens, Monte Cassino in an old war movie starring John Wayne back when he was still lean.

And then there's the functional nature of doors: They are, alternately, barriers or protection. They keep us safe from things like ax murderers and siding salesmen. They can also bar us from entry, an annoying trait I associate with the faculty door at the Rowenhorst Student Center where I work out; it's just across the street but often locked, necessitating a hike of a block or more to get to a public entrance.

An unlocked door, on the other hand, is permission. It is access granted, an invitation, inclusion. Where a locked door is a limitation, an unlocked door represents possibility, even opportunity. That's why I choose to believe that the doors I photograph are all unlocked, and why I never check - I suspect very few of them actually are. Probably they lock them when they see me coming.

If I did open one of these doors, what would I hope to find on the other side? What wondrous thing, what amazing experience, what wise person or beautiful sight or decadent treat would live up to the promise of the door? To speculate about such things is to think about who I am, why I believe I'm here, and what holes are still empty in my life. It's kind of scary, and potentially discouraging -- what if, after all that soul-searching, I discover that my fondest dream, the wonder I hope lies on the other side, is an all-meat pizza, a micro-brew, and the Twins beating the White Sox on a big-screen TV? 

It makes me think about my own doors, physical and spiritual. Too often, I fear, I have them tightly locked, a means of keeping my self to myself. I want my family and friends see my doors as invitations to something we will share, but do they? Do they see opportunity and the promise of memorable things, or are they too accustomed disappointment and a long trudge around to the public entrance?

Mental meanderings such as this are why it's amazing I'm still married -- this is the point where Dawn's eyes are usually glazed and she's struggling to find a polite response. Dad would say a door is just a door, you need one to keep the snow and neighbors from blowing in, that's all. I have rightfully been accused of thinking too much.

A vibrant thought life can be a handicap, especially in Northwest Iowa, where Dutchmen, farmers and Republicans tend to dominate -- pragmatic groups all, who don't normally put a high value on deep thinking. But I think if we take time to wonder, and wander, about the world, we find ourselves continually encountering the One who made it. That's a good enough reason for me.

Enough

I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of "enough." Actually, I've been thinking about this off and on for years, ever since we paid off the house and everyone immediately assumed we'd turn around and buy a bigger one. We looked - having friends in real estate is like having family members who sell financial instruments, they're always pitching something - but we found we didn't want any of those big houses. So now, years later, we're still blissfully unaware of how miserable we are in our little house.

The funny thing is, a lot of folks think it's because we don't have enough money. We just think this is enough house for two people. And we're left with this shameful problem of money in the bank, and a lot of well-intentioned advisors telling us that we need some debt. Because paying taxes is bad but paying Citibank is good? At least I get something for my taxes.

The same thing happens with cars (I guess a half-ton pickup should embarass me enough that I'll eagerly take on another three years of payments just to avoid the death blow to my image) and vacations. And a huge industry has sprung up just to address the sensitivity men have about the size of their TV sets.

And how about food? If an eight-ounce steak is good, a 10-ounce steak is better, and best of all is that two-pound monster you get for free if you can finish it all. The best restaurants are buffets, right? European friends say only in America is the quality of a meal judged by it's quantity. No such thing as eating enough; all our best celebrations involve food comas.

The truth is, I guess, that for most of us enough isn't. We need more . . . than we have now, than the other guy has, whatever. After all, isn't that what Nelson Rockefeller is supposed to have said when asked how much money is enough - just a little bit more?

It's an important question, because until we have enough, everything we get goes to feeding our own insatiable need. There's more than enough wealth in this country to end poverty, stamp out hunger, fix education, put people back to work. There are so many digits to the left of the decimal point of our collective worth that we can't really comprehend it, yet each individual one of us still thinks we don't have enough. So all that money goes up in interest-payment smoke, or gets locked into the IRA.

At least, though, we're all a lot happier. Oh, you're not?

Then let me suggest that you think a little bit about enough. Because there's a lot of happiness, in a weird sort of way, in giving away 15% of what you earn and then finding out you managed to save even more than that. In backing your bought-for-cash truck out of your paid-for garage and realizing you haven't paid a dime of interest to anyone in over a decade. In helping three families get into homes because your credit is not only golden, it's completely unencumbered.

There is such a thing as enough. And figuring out what it is is half the fun.