In the Closet

Flickering red candles, the creaking wood beneath as you slide into the pew, quiet goes the mind followed by an inexplicable connection to...something. The Buddhist temple offers something similar, yet in stark contrast to the Catholic cathedral. The pews are pillows on the ground, bells ring footsteps to a mindful still, the space simply adorned and filled with a breathe-it-in-deep peace. And then there is my closet.

As a child I would often find solace in the space of my closet. The hanging clothes provided for a good acoustic quality, door closed and lights off—maybe it felt like a womb. I never 'thought' about it other than to go in there and meditate. I didn't know then, that that's what I was doing, and when I think back about her and the pull towards contemplative times, only proves my theory that "we don't fall far from our own tree." One of the ironic things about the closet is, at night (and this is still in effect today) if the door is even the slightest bit open, I need to close it. The child's monochromatic imagination of what's inside, peering out from behind the door ajar, just waiting to get you!

The inside of a closet also became a place of refuge during my first marriage. A frightened young woman with baby in belly would hide, literally in the womb of her parent's home, buried behind the dresses and trousers on hangers and neatly lined-up shoes. There was an enormous feeling of protection, comfort and peace in the closet, and during times like those (which there were many) I thought, "I might just stay in here," afraid of the consequences that waited outside.

Occasionally, I enter the closet in my mind, for there is not much room for me in the one in my vintage home. This place of refuge, peace and tranquility, like the open-arms of a cathedral or temple, is only a closed-eye memory away.