The Child’s Gate

Writing has once again claimed most of my time. I love it, though my other loves—painting and photography—wait somewhat forlornly in the wings. There are only so many waking hours in a day, and domestic tasks quietly insist on their share.

After completing The Weight of Air, my travel memoir, (available by donation) another project has taken hold: an autobiography written in prose-poem form. Epic in length, it has already grown beyond 6,000 words and is not yet halfway finished. Most poems average fewer than 300 words, so this one stretches the form considerably.

The work begins with my father and mother—their early lives and eventual meeting in Chicago. Then come my own beginnings: the arrival of my four siblings, the rhythms of our household, my father’s work in social justice, the moves, the schools, the growing up—alongside my mother’s struggles and her efforts to find balance. Graduation follows, then leaving home, mental struggles, and the uncertain steps into adult life.

The writing has now reached the time when my first daughter, Naomi, was born. Soon afterward her mother and I divorced, and her mother had to be institutionalized. The story carries both tenderness and upheaval.

Here is a small section from that writing.

The Child

Strong vowels formed her name:
Naomi.

For a season
three shared one bed.
Her mother’s breast was never far.

Light gathered in her—
blonde hair,
green eyes.

No sooner had she found her steps
than the hand began to draw.

In her father's studio
page after page
flew from her grasp.

At first
only bright scribbles—
then houses, figures,
the sun and rainbows.

A small school stood nearby.
She entered the circle of others.

A few years passed quietly
before the first fracture.

Something within her mother
turned against itself.

Hunger answered,
then denied.
Food taken in,
then cast away.

Voices rose at night.
Rooms held what could not settle.

Then the word was spoken:

Divorce.

It did not rest easily in him.
Yet it was received
as a narrowing path
that might still lead forward.

                _________________________________________________________________________

Writing these memories means experiencing them again. Yet the distance of time allows new insights to appear—quiet understandings that were invisible in the moment.

While completing a section describing Naomi’s early life, I came across a drawing she made when she was about six years old. It is so luminous it might have been made by an angel.

Through a trellised gate covered in flowers we see a young horse resting on a grassy knoll in the near distance. Around the horse’s neck is a red ribbon, the same red ribbon that winds through the flowers climbing the trellis. Behind the animal shines a bright sun, its red rays spreading outward, while a few soft white clouds drift across the sky.

The image suggests a threshold—a passage between the ordinary world and somewhere more protected, more essential. Yet the gate is not forbidding. It is a trellis covered in flowers, an invitation rather than a barrier.

Beyond it rests a young horse entirely at peace in its meadow. The red ribbon circles its neck and winds through the flowers, as if beauty itself has reached outward and gently claimed the creature.

Behind it all shines a bright sun, spreading warmth across the scene. Even the clouds drift without menace.

The drawing suggests that the child understood something wordlessly: that somewhere within her there existed a place no upheaval could reach—tended, flowering, quietly illuminated from within.

Perhaps children know this instinctively—that somewhere within them there is a meadow no storm can reach.

At A Threshold

The word portal is at once familiar and mysterious; herein is its charm. When we come to a portal, we are at a threshold. We may be at a doorway that leads from a familiar interior to an outdoors that is limitless and leads to places unknown. Or it may be the reverse, coming from the wild outdoors of bustling streets or primitive forests, to an entrance that welcomes us to the comfort and safety of home. Portals have great variety. In ancient days, most cities were surrounded by walls, and great gates were portals to and from the interior. These days, websites can act as a portal to other domains through links that are gateways. 

I love experiences that are portals. I have been through many gates, and crossed countless thresholds around the world. Many times I have crossed into the unknown and always felt a thrill at the possibility of surprise and learning something new. Portal experiences function this way—taking us from something known into the realm of spirit, where borders are more obscure and our frame of mind shifts to something new. Such an experience can take us into the heart of creation and the center of our own being.

I have a simple example of just such a portal experience. It occurred last October while hiking outside of Vernazza, Italy, one of the five villages of Cinqueterra, on the Italian Riviera. I was with a friend, walking along a narrow dirt trail hugging a mountainside, with the Ligurian Sea just below us. We had followed the path up and down slopes, amid vineyards and flowering shrubs, when we turned and abruptly came to a man sitting on a bench, accordion on his lap with his dog laying on a rug at his feet. He had the look of old world gypsy—dark, with rumpled but stylish clothing, and a little mustache that perched on his upper lip. Wearing eye glasses under black leather cap, and smiling amiably when he saw us, he began playing his red accordion. His dog rolled onto its back, spreading his legs and putting all four feet up in the air, absolutely content and relishing the music on a fine fall day with the sunshine warming the earth.

At the sudden sight of the old-world gypsy and his dog, and the sound of the first notes of the accordion, I was entering a portal. A realm of wonder and enchantment opened before me. My breathing became deeper and I felt rested and gay. Although in a foreign land on foreign soil, an ancient recognition stirred in my breast. I had stepped through the portal and was in wonderment, spellbound by magic. We stood near and listened to the music, and I made a film with my camera video.