Monday Morning Musings:
“We do on stage things that supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”
–Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
“The Heart
has many Doors.”
–Emily Dickinson
Full poem here.
“our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was father’s doll-child; and her the children have been my dolls.”
–Henrik Ibsen, A Doll’s House
The heart I’m told has four chambers,
but every chamber must have a door
and so,
blood flows,
love comes, it goes,
the doors of the heart beat open, then close. . .
We go to the theater,
drink coffee before closed doors–
they soon open,
A Doll’s House, Arden Theatre, Philadelphia
taking us to a nineteenth-century
that seems contemporary–
how shocking the play must have been then,
it’s hints of sexuality, as well as the dissolution of a marriage.
We are caught up in others’ lives,
the doorbell rings,
people enter and exit,
the audience gasps at Torvald’s remarks,
feels Nora’s awakening
pauses, then exhales
with “the door slam heard round the world.”
We applaud, then exit, too,
down the stairs
and out into the cold.
Winter folds its icy heart around the city.
We walk and talk
past the ghosts of Christ Church
through another door
to drink more coffee.
I think of doll houses and dolls. . .
Our daughters used to play with dolls and doll houses,
tip-tapping the small figures round tiny chairs and tables
and in and out of rooms
without real doors to open or shut–
but who’s to say it wasn’t real,
a man-doll named John,
a piece of a wooden chair named Pumpernickel,
(we never knew why)
the mini American Girl dolls
they were all real,
weren’t they? At least for a time?
A door opened, unfastened hearts and minds,
as I remember . . .
a doll has no heart,
except for that which is given by love,
or perhaps they create their own hearts
and perhaps they make ours grow
as they enter our lives and exit,
leaving the door ajar for others find their way in.
We open doors,
we close doors
sometimes we perch upon them
never noticing how precarious it can be,
life, opening and closing–
sometimes we carry our hearts right through a doorway,
and keep on going.
I’m told that people can die from broken hearts,
like Debbie Reynolds after Carrie Fisher died,
the heart no longer beats,
the four chambers, silent.
The doors of the heart open and close—
until they open and close no more—
Exits and entrances.
Another dollhouse.
Another doll.
There was also this.
For those outside of the U.S., yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday. My local team, the Philadelphia Eagles won. It was a big deal, and even family members and friends who are not particular sports fans were excited. I made my husband goodies to eat, and sat with him for about half an hour, but I then went upstairs to watch other shows and read.
