Staircase (revisited)
Sometimes
I sit at the top of a staircase
No sacred space but a threshold
No sacred wall hangings but hastily draped and drying towels
No sacred incense but the scent of wood and dust and dampness
And whatever soap I used last to wash my hands
No sacred sounds but the clicking of dog claws on the floor
The world as it moves outside
The sudden ring of a phone, and my breath
As it passes over the hairs in my nostrils
Mimicking this morning the wind that howls through the tops of the trees
No sacred moment, but now or never
A stopping between routine and responsibilities
Before I shrug it off, descend, and start my day
No sacred posture but balancing
Upright just enough to keep me from tipping too far forward
Acutely aware of life, and near disaster, and the forward motion of it all
And another darkened tunnel I will someday face
No sacred schedule but a subtle pull towards stillness
I am content for now to sit silent
To gaze down this century old passageway
To pay attention to whatever comes up
At the top of this staircase
— a.r.
A photo of my staircase
Reposted because it is still my favorite place to sit still, to be silent, and to pay attention.
sometimesihatemycat 
Perfect
staircases, stairwells, are such important rooms