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A Giant Leap
I am sitting on somebody's front doorstep. In central London you can't normally get away with this, doorsteps are narrow and uninviting. Some of them are wide and very inviting but this one I can sit on for free. As I run one hand along the fine hairs of my arm I notice that more and more of them are greyed through almost down to the root, it makes it look as though the hairs are vanishing into my arm. I think of a doorstep from my youth in Scotland, cracked in half from a minor earthquake, it had been a massive block of stone firmly embedded in the ground, rough all over except for the smooth shard that had shattered during the tremor, impossible to replace.
There was a house I lived in with two cats who were not allowed to venture outside for fear they would be shot by the neighbor or poisoned, or run over, or catnapped. These cats had no faith in their instincts and were timid housecats, fragile fat balls of fur. You stepped past the front doorstep and closed a screen door behind you before opening the inner door, like an airlock, protecting these innerspace cats from the hostile environment outside. There were occasions when I would sit on that first doorstep, steeling myself for the situation inside and taking the time take a few deep breaths. I hated that house.
I've sat on doorsteps for courage, inspiration, or just to pause and think, they seem to embody beginnings well. You can sit on one and imagine that this really is literally the first step.
The weather has turned cold and a breeze cannons down the narrow London street. The hairs on my arms raise and lower like fronds and I decide it is time to stop thinking and time to get back to work. I leave that first step behind and walk away back to my office.
Aug.30.2007