Janus at the Door

Janus is waiting at the door. Sitting, waiting, Janus knows that time or space will eventually bring us to his feet.

Who can say what beyond the door awaits. For in passing thru, identity is lost. Shape, size, taste, smell: stripped off by the singularity of that passage. From this side to that, from here to there, Janus is waiting for us to come to the center, to pass thru to door, to make a new beginning.

And in the end we will. Perhaps not by way of the spinning vortex that surrounds the door. Perhaps not by the path that follows the straight and narrow. Perhaps not soon. But in the end each one of us will.

And when we do, when we lose that which made us us and become the something elses that we will then be, we will look back thru that door, we will look back over the shoulders of the waiting one and see the swirling chaos amid the void: the galaxies, the stars, the planets, the moons, the skies, the mountains, the trees, the fish in the sea, the love, the hate, the music, the shouting, the tranquility, the war, the silent whispering, the ugly belligerence, fragrant flowers, dismal ghettos. We will see it all for what it really is.

Listen to the music. Water a tree. Swim a river. Fertilize a rose. Reject the hatred.

Put down your arms.

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