I used to be like Lucy, from The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. I used to tell everyone about the magical land that I had visited, where the impossible was possible, and how everything was tinged with wonder. And when my story was done, I’d invite them to come with me next time. Actually, like Lucy, I insisted on it. After all, the Land was not so very far away; it just took a willingness to open a door and shift some stuff around, and there you were. It’s like being carried, I would tell them. And some came, but most did not.
I don’t do that much anymore.
Oh, I still believe the Land is there, but I haven’t been there in a while. Too busy in the house, pacing the rooms, checking the mail, hoping the floorboards don’t fall from beneath my feet. They do that, sometimes. The floorboards, I mean. I’ve fallen through my share of floors, and I don’t mean to do that again. It’s so scary.
So here I am, in a house with a room with a doorway to a magical land, but I can’t quite get there these days. It’s the floors, you see. They are so unsteady. What I really need is a good carpenter, I know. I’ve called him, multiple times a day in fact, and I know he’ll come by eventually, but it feels like a long wait.
And until then, I still try to point people toward that Land because, hey, it’s important. Some people might never visit there if I don’t tell them about it and show them which way to go. So, I’ll sing a little song about it through my cracked windows, or I’ll write a little story and send it out to the street, paper-airplane style. Most people don’t hear the melodies, and they step right on top of the stories on their way to wherever they’re going. Some days, it feels like my song is getting weaker and I’m running out of paper. Still, I sing.
Gosh, I miss that place, where the simple sound of a Name made you feel brave or adventurous, or like it was the very beginning of the holidays. Where someone comes by right on time with the precise tool you need just when you need it. Where joy bubbles up and you can become more than you ever thought you could be. Where winter turns to spring in a matter of hours. Where the prophecies come true.
I have to get back there, I know it’s where I belong. If only that carpenter would come. Maybe he’s here already, working on the lower floors in such a way that I can’t quite see him yet, but maybe he’s here all the same. I hope so. Or maybe I could find some wood and lay it down for extra security, though I’m not sure where I would find it. Or maybe I should fix my eyes and leap? Or maybe there’s another way in to that Land that I never knew. Anything is possible.
Still, if I go, who’s going to take care of the house?