The Threshold

There is a moment before the door opens.

Not a moment on the clock,

but one that breathes between worlds.

A white feather in my palm.

A worn bench beneath an ancient tree.

Birdsong weaving through the stillness.

And a great wooden door, waiting—

not to be knocked,

but to be felt.

I do not rush.

I do not press forward.

I sit. I listen. I remember.

This, too, is movement.

This pause.

This surrender.

This soft arrival at the Threshold.

What if not all beginnings look like a step forward?

What if some begin

by sitting down…

and becoming still?