the sound of a screen door slamming lightly into its frame takes me to a different place - far away from today. my life now is absent of screen doors that break solid barriers and let in the sounds of living and fresh air and allow connection to all that is outside myself. screen doors say i am glad to be part of this world - the ladybugs are my friends - the bumblebees are welcome to coexist alongside me and stray cats are my guests for supper.

but i have no screen door.

polite affluent suburban society does not say - we are connected so come on over and never mind knocking. it does not acknowledge the sunlight and birdsong and wind whispering through the trees who are my companions on the journey, more so than the civilized society of business suits and bmw's. some might say i am blessed - lucky - to live in a center hall colonial with blue shutters and a pool, with money left over to buy useless trinkets if i desire - which i don't. i have the american dream but not my dream. it is too enclosing - too separate - and i feel powerless to break the stone walls and replace them with fresh air and screen doors. in my dream there is no glass in the windows - no solid steel door keeping me safe and locked away in isolation - no computers to give me the false sense of community with other human beings - no television shouting at me to be what i am not - no cars going nowhere special - no appointments at the hair salon to cover the gray roots and nondescript brown of who i really am.

screen doors say i am as real as ants on the kitchen floor and weeds growing among the roses and dirty sneakers tossed by the front door while i make cornbread in the iron skillet with crisco sizzling at the edges and meatloaf cooling on the stove. screen doors say we are not meant to be alone - we are part of everything and everything is welcome - come on in. they say mema is always home with windows open and dogs napping on the front porch and let's play outside where we only have one step back over the threshold to the inside where mama's baking oatmeal cookies and daddy's shelling peas. screen doors say life is simple and everything you need is right here in the sounds of children outside and the smells of pork roast in the crock pot and apples baking in the oven - without all the useless meaningless cushions surrounding us and molding us and making us what we do not want to be.

screen doors say i have a life filled with abundance of nature and green grass and chipmunks by the dozen making family compounds underneath my rock garden. they say serenity is mine for the taking as i am embraced by the swaying trees and cooing doves nesting in the backyard.

but i don't have screen doors.

i have a double steel door painted colonial blue to feign friendliness and sliding glass doors that are never clean because of dirty dog feet protesting the need for enclosure at all. when i gather enough courage to step outside away from the mind-haunting busyness i gasp with pleasure at the beauty and bounty all around me - beyond locked doors. for a little while i join what is real and true - the walls open and gardenia perfumed air rushes in - air conditioned fog and electronic blindness peel away layer by layer until i can see brilliant emerald and amethyst and bright golden yellow. a woodpecker tapping with passion wakes my ears to the symphony that is always bursting forth among the trees and crickets and blue jays. i am awake - vibrating with energy - trembling with pleasure that i am still alive and this is when i want to throw the laptops and cell phones and ipods and all artificial life into the pool and walk away - follow the brown and white spotted fawn into the forest - shed my clothes and let the brown and gray replace blond in magnificent honesty -

and never ever go back.

arching branches dripping with perfect minuscule white flowers - lace edged leaves holding morning dew one glistening drop at a time - tender new rose buds blushing pink and crimson and intertwined with dark purple clematis - peonies bursting in a brief riot of magenta glory - breath catching spring beauty so captivating it must have been painted there by monet. then the burst and dazzle and enveloping perfume of summer - euphoria lasting only an instant.

will you think i'm beautiful in autumn - rich with color and life but worn and spent - summer lushness giving way to the inevitable return to the earth?

will you still love me in winter when i am nothing more than a skeleton of myself - offering only the prayer for what may or may not return the same - all parts not equal to the way you once loved them? will you settle a blanket around my roots and gently trim away all that is finished to find what life is hidden inside? will you wait for me - will you stand patiently - quietly - believing i will return - better for this brief respite of stillness and emptiness?

the garden teaches respect for the stillness when sustenance and strength are gathered - trust in the circle that seems to begin in death and rise again - stronger and more resilient - understanding as the sun reaches the pinnacle and without pause begins its descent. when it has dropped beyond experience, beyond warmth and light, it has already begun to rise. there is no end - no beginning - no win or loss - no top or bottom. there is only the circle containing all parts at once - relentless continuation.

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life is a winding trail of rocks and hills and muddy spots almost impossible to navigate - a path of enchanting sunsets over the mountains on pueblo land and warm story time next to a freshly bathed sweet smelling baby who wants to read good night moon one more time. it is making love on the beach in hawaii - too young to be uncomfortable and too reckless to fear getting caught. it is contentment in the morning sun with a hummingbird dancing in the spray of the water hose on your birthday and agonizing fear when your child's fever won't break. it is passing on the youth and beauty and spotlight to your children as you step back fully willing and insistent they take the last piece of pie or sleep in the coziest bed or shine like a star in the black sky.

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the garden is a part of my life i come home to over and over again - along with faith and smiling pets and the sound of sports blaring from the television because it means jim is home and i am not alone. i come home to my books - the smell of dust on worn spines with title after title calling my name in the little town library where i greet the librarians like trusted keepers of my treasures. i come home to baking chocolate chip cookies on my worn out baking sheet that never gets completely clean and seeing my sweet elizabeth and alexander settle in on shaky black counter stools for a glass of milk and one too many warm soft cookies. i come home to the lovely chapel where weekday mass is quiet and reverent and i close my eyes from start to finish and only open them at the end to receive golden sunlight pouring through stained glass. i come home to my peonies and hydrangeas, tulips, butterfly bushes and mountains of lady's mantle and black eyed susans, white montauk daisies and the intoxicating fragrance of pink phlox and butterflies landing on my shoulders. i come home to birds singing outside my windows and neighbors stopping to chat about what kind of mulch i will buy this year or how quickly the kids are growing up or laughing at me for polishing too long on my little red mini cooper.

if i had another life, this is how i would live.

i would have very few things - only what i use every day - and too many books. i would live in a little cottage with white-washed walls and clean open windows flooding the simple sparse rooms with light and fresh breezes. the front porch would have a white wicker swing with soft faded cushions and a crocheted blanket for cool evenings under the stars. pots of overflowing ivy and red geraniums would line the front steps leading to a screen door - always open to the sounds of birds and laughter and neighbors calling out as they pass. the one gathering room would have a big braided rug with every color running through it - the couches covered in natural linen slipcovers - the stone fireplace ready with split and seasoned wood neatly stacked. the floor underneath the rug would be honey colored oak - smooth and worn from life and pets and shearling slippers. the kitchen - white with butcher block counter tops and open cabinets - just enough stoneware bowls and plates and coffee mugs, but not too many. the silverware would be old and polished - heavy and worn from generations - washed by hand and placed in the cotton lined drawer ready for the next meal. standing in the center of the kitchen would be an ancient weathered farmhouse table surrounded by an assortment of wooden chairs and the fat yellow vase in the center would always be filled with fresh cut flowers from the garden. the bathroom would be austere and clean with a rain shower, a white tub and thick towels on hooks, soft and sweet smelling from the wash. the bedrooms would each hold a lovely wooden bed with the best mattress money could buy - fluffy down comforters and pillows - fine silky linens - one set would be enough for each bed - washed and replaced before sleep. good reading lamps would be scattered through the house beside beds and overstuffed chairs for hours and hours of being lost in stories of lives and foreign lands and mary oliver's poetry. windows would be covered in natural cotton muslin covering darkness but light enough to allow dawn to awaken me each morning. the house would be lovely - not pretentious - but simple and useful.

a beach would be nearby - and the ocean - for hours spent collecting shells and walking in the early morning and lying on a blanket observing the world with my notebook and pen. the salty air would nourish the pink and blue and white mop head hydrangeas in the wild and almost overgrown cottage garden surrounding the house - filled with sweet smelling phlox and feathery cosmos, lush white montauk daisies, zinnias and peonies and flowers abundant. in the center of the back yard would be a roomy square of tilled earth in perfect order with straight rows of green beans and watermelons, sweet corn, tomatoes, bell peppers and mounds of zucchini for making bread. the gravel driveway would make a comforting crunch as family and friends arrive for supper. fat calico cats would roam in and out as they please - dozing in dizzying sunbeams in the day and my lap in the evening. the house would be filled with children and laughter and time enough for all the important parts of life like conversation and music and good books, spring gardening and naps in the porch swing after lunch.