This morning, I stepped outside with no particular destination, just a quiet curiosity about what the day might unfold.

The air was crisp, and as I breathed in, I felt its coolness fill my lungs, only to leave again, slightly warmer. It struck me—this was the first door, the breath itself. The in-breath, the out-breath—how many times had I passed through this doorway without noticing?

I wandered down a wooded path, my feet crunching the damp ground. The trees stood bare, waiting for spring, and I thought about how we move through doorways constantly, never pausing to recognize them. The moment we wake up, when sleep fades, or the instant before speaking, when silence breaks into sound. Even in the forest, the transition from shadow to sunlight as I stepped into a clearing felt like a threshold.

A small bird flitted by, pausing on a branch, and for a moment, we shared stillness—two beings simply existing. Another door. The quiet meeting of self and other, where two realities touch.

I continued, listening to the wind through the trees. The world is full of small thresholds—the moment a breeze shifts, water turning to ice, the first note of a song breaking silence. Doors everywhere. But how often do we see them?

I reached a stream, its surface rippling in the wind. I knelt to dip my fingers in the cold water, and in that instant, I felt something vast beyond myself—something always there, beneath the surface. Was this what the door showed me? That the light, the awareness, is always waiting, just behind the veil of ordinary perception?

I sat, watching the water move.

Perhaps we don’t need to grasp these moments—just notice them, like a bead sliding onto a thread. The door had always been there, in the stillness before a bird sings, in the warmth of breath against cold air, in the tilt of the world when we truly pay attention. And each time I stepped through, the light was already there.

~