Community of Doors

I had a sudden desire to bake chocolate chip cookies after dinner last night. I'm still not eating chocolate, so I wasn't wanting them to eat, but it's somewhat of an unhealthy, wonderful tradition for Megan, Patrick and me. She was over for dinner, and had to run out to a coffee shop gig just down the street for about an hour, but promised to be back for part two. Meanwhile, Patrick and I went for a walk to The Market (It's really Vons, disguised as a neighborhood market) to pick up chocolate chips, flour, and sugar.

Belmont shore is our sweet neighborhood, and a fun place to walk. Every home is a unique rendition of a 1920's spanish, craftsman, or bungalow style home. There are flowers and plants everywhere, people walking, dogs sniffing, few cars, and plenty of crickets and cool night air to make a mile distance disappear without notice. I was particularly intrigued leaving at dusk, and walking in the dark, because from the sidewalk I could see into many of the domed picture windows, and open front doors. Each home had a new life to spy into for a moment as I passed. I saw a few empty kitchens, an uncleared dining table, HGTV, two guys playing video games, one girl at the kitchen counter on her phone, and a dog sniffing at the screen door. But from many more homes came dinner smells, music or television noise, conversation, or simply a glowing light -also sensory indicators that life was enclosed in the box, sealed by the closed front door.

Outside of The Market a middle aged man, not homeless looking, but more down and out, asked us for change. Shaking our heads we ducked inside, both perplexed by what to do. We bought our supplies, plus an apple, protein bar, and water bottle. Exiting the store, Patrick asked him his name, "Walt," and shook his hand. "I'm Patrick. Here, we got these for you." Walt smiled, "God bless you." He lingered on our minds individually, though we didn't talk about him anymore once we started back.

I held the yellow Nestle chips package, and a box of sugar, Patrick held the flour -in Long Beach it is against the law to use plastic bags, and paper bags are 10cents a piece. At least one passerby smiled at our highly recognizable supplies. Homemade cookies just have that ageless value; everyone has a memory about them that sets a smile and hope in place at the thought.

These pieces blend in a unique way: lives in a home, sealed from the outside, almost; a man with nothing, ashamed to even look in someone's eyes, and surprised when asked to give his name; cookies, that remind even strangers that we're all somewhat alike. I felt a tinge of sadness, growing deeper, into loneliness as I walked back home, realizing that as humans we NEED one another, community, friendship, open doors...

I asked Patrick the other day if he ever remembers people in Texas leaving their front doors open. In my suburb growing up, we certainly didn't. But my favorite Long Beach tradition, that we practice, and I see often, is that when people come home they leave their doors open --wide open, without screens, just open. I've noticed that people who do this are mostly single, sometimes a young couple, and occasionally an old couple. My theory is that it's people who sense deep within a loneliness for human connection, and simply to participate in the sounds and sights, and enable the the outside air to mingle with the indoor evening gives a person hope that he is a little less alone in his box with the closed door.