A Box of Doorknobs

Somewhere in there
is the perfect doorknob,
the one that you have been looking for

in the years spent living in your old house
with mismatched lights and
beautifully odd doors

from half a dozen eras,
the historian’s nightmare,
and yet, strangely comfortable,

as imperfect and quirky as you are,
a place always evolving,
so slowly and naturally

that hardly a soul notices,
even when the changes
are right in front of them, even

when they are there,
day in and day out,
constant visitors,

too busy to see, too
focused inward
at their own battles

to see yours.

No matter. You learned the lesson long ago,
of what is important, and what is not,
and how imperfection

often holds beauty
far surpassing anything
you will find in Better Homes and Gardens.

So you sort through the box,
half hoping you will find the perfect knob,
and half afraid.

About the Poem

I live in an old home. The deed goes back to 1800. It’s not fancy and it’s far from perfect. I’ve been here for nearly four years, ever since I moved to Vermont from Virginia.

If you live in an old home, you know life is a project. Nothing is perfect. There’s always something that needs replacing, repairing, tinkering with, and odds are, someone who lived there before you had atrocious taste that you slowly work at doing something about. You are fortunate if there is even one right angle in the whole place.

So if you are looking for perfection, and old home is not the place to live. But if you see a home as a reflection of life, as less a place you live in and show off, and more a place that lives and has it’s own life journey, and you feel honored to be part of that journey for a few years, then it’s just the place for you.

I pretty much see everything that way, my work, my relationships, my faith, my own life – imperfect, broken or breaking, always under repair, a grand and fearful adventure, always in need of a new doorknob.

Tom

PS – The picture was taken at the Blacksmith Antique shop in Cambridge, NY. You can click on it for a larger version.