why i still leave the door open

You never know who may be looking for a place to land. 

When the physical Two Feathers closed, I could have let that be the ending.

There would have been nothing wrong with that.

Some chapters finish.

Some places belong to a particular season.

We can be grateful for what they were without trying to make them last forever.

And for a while, I didn't know what would come next.

The rooms were gone.

The hearth was gone.

The storefront windows were gone.

There was no longer a physical door to unlock in the morning.

But the reason I had opened that door in the first place was still there.

I Kept Remembering the People

Not numbers.

People.

And among the people I remember most are the wonderful souls who became my family at Two Feathers.

They worked alongside one another.

They brought their gifts and talents.

Their knowledge.

Their creativity.

Their time.

Their laughter.

Their hearts.

And they shared those things freely—not only with me, but with the people who walked through our doors.

Two Feathers was never something I created alone.

There were many hands in it.

Many voices.

Many ideas.

Many acts of generosity that could never have appeared on a balance sheet and could never be measured by hours worked or things accomplished.

Each person brought something that could only have come from them.

And somewhere in the giving, we changed one another too.

We Grew There

When I think of those years now, I don't see any of us as the same people who first walked through those doors.

We grew.

We learned.

We stumbled.

We stretched beyond things we once thought we could do.

We discovered gifts in ourselves and witnessed them emerging in one another.

And eventually, as people do, we continued growing beyond those walls.

One by one, lives moved forward.

New chapters opened.

New adventures called.

New opportunities appeared.

The family that had gathered in one place began carrying what it had become into other places.

There is sadness in that for me.

Of course there is.

I think of them often.

I miss them.

And I love each and every one of them.

But there is also something extraordinarily beautiful about knowing that none of us was meant to remain exactly where we were.

We were supposed to grow.

Perhaps one of the greatest privileges of loving people is eventually getting to watch them carry their light somewhere you cannot follow.

Some Gratitude Cannot Be Repaid

There are things people gave to Two Feathers—and to me—that I could never adequately return.

How do you repay someone for believing in something beside you?

For showing up?

For bringing their gifts and saying:

Here. Let me add mine.

For helping create a place that became larger and more beautiful because they were part of it?

I don't think you can.

Some gratitude is simply too large for repayment.

But perhaps gratitude like that isn't asking to be paid back.

Perhaps it asks to be carried forward.

Someone gave generously to me.

So I give generously to someone else.

Someone made room for my gifts.

So I make room for another person's.

Someone believed in what we were creating.

So when I encounter another person trying to create something meaningful, I help them believe too.

Someone once helped hold the door open beside me.

So now—

I hold it open for whoever is coming next.

That does not settle a debt.

Love was never a ledger.

It simply allows the gift to keep traveling.

The person who needed somewhere to rest.

The person who stood talking longer than either of us expected.

The people who entrusted prayers to the Giving Tree.

The folded pieces of gratitude placed inside a glass jar.

The person who noticed a turquoise sign at precisely the right moment.

The Soul Portrait recipient who opened their arms when I asked:

“May I give you a hug?”

And so many others whose stories were never mine to tell.

I kept thinking about what all those moments had in common.

Very few of them required anything extraordinary.

A chair.

A conversation.

A piece of paper.

A little time.

Someone willing to notice.

Sometimes that was enough for something meaningful to happen.

What Do You Do With That?

Once you have seen how much a small kindness can matter, it becomes difficult to pretend you haven't.

Once someone has trusted you with something tender, you understand differently what it means to be trusted.

Once you have watched a room become a place where people exhale—

you remember.

Even after the room is gone.

Perhaps especially then.

And somewhere along the way I realized:

I didn't miss having a business nearly as much as I missed having a way to be in service.

There is a difference.

So I Began Looking for Another Door

It didn't look like the old one.

That took some getting used to.

There would be no familiar storefront.

No hearth I could physically light.

No chair I could pull out for someone.

No Giving Tree standing across the room.

But perhaps I had been thinking too literally about doors.

A letter can be a door.

A painting can be a door.

A story can be a door.

A creative invitation can be a door.

A Soul Portrait can be a door.

A little object made by hand and sent to someone you've never met can be a door.

Even a website can become one—

if we remember that a human being is standing on the other side of the screen.

Not Everyone Will Come In

That's important too.

Two Feathers will not be for everyone.

It never was.

Some people will wander through briefly.

Some will stay.

Some will read one sentence and leave.

Some may return years later.

Some may never understand why anyone would hang a prayer from a tree or save a tiny piece of paper because somebody wrote something grateful on it.

That's all right.

An open door isn't an obligation.

It is an invitation.

You don't have to convince someone to enter.

You simply make the threshold welcoming—

and allow people to decide for themselves.

I Think That Is Why

Why keep making things?

Why keep writing?

Why keep painting?

Why build another Haven when the first one had to close?

Why leave room for someone I may never meet?

Because somewhere there may be a person having an ordinary Tuesday who needs one small reminder.

Someone may need permission to rest.

Someone may need somewhere to put a prayer.

Someone may need to remember one good thing.

Someone may need a sentence.

Someone may need to create something badly and joyfully with their hands.

Someone may need to stumble across a turquoise sign and smile through tears.

Someone may simply need to know there is still kindness in the world.

I cannot know who that person will be.

Neither could I before.

We opened the doors anyway.

The Door Was Never Mine to Guard

Perhaps that is what I understand differently now.

For a long time, I imagined myself as the keeper of a place.

But I don't think I was ever meant to stand at the entrance deciding who belonged there.

If there is a key in my hand, perhaps its purpose is not to lock anything.

Perhaps it is to give the key away.

To make another entrance.

To open another possibility.

To create something and release it.

To say:

Here.

This is for you if you need it.

And trust the person standing there to know whether they do.

So the Door Stays Open

Not because I know exactly where all of this is going.

I don't.

Not because everything that was lost can be recreated.

It can't.

And not because the new Haven should become a replica of the old one.

It shouldn't.

This is something different.

But the welcome can remain.

The listening can remain.

The creating can remain.

The willingness to sit beside another human being can remain.

The magic we create for one another can remain. 

The light can remain.

And perhaps, somewhere along the way, someone will arrive who never knew there was once another building, another hearth, another Giving Tree.

They won't need to.

They will simply know they found somewhere that feels strangely familiar.

Somewhere they are allowed to wander.

Somewhere nothing is demanded of them.

Somewhere there is still a chair.

Still a light.

Still something waiting to be discovered.

And somewhere near the entrance—

a key that was never meant to stay in my hand.

I don't know who will come through the door next.

That is exactly why I still leave it open.