The Door

Can you be a poet without knowing nature? Maybe. But there is something you lose if you never have that conversation — with rain, with light, or with the particular stillness that comes after snow. I strongly feel that a person who never writes a single poem, or is even unable to read and write, is still a poet from within. Everyone has a poem to recite at the sight of pouring rain, the noise of the ocean, the quiet of a mountain, and the awkward silence of the wee hours. The thousands of words that jump hither and thither in one's mind might not find any worldly expression, but these things accumulate. They make you softer. More human. Nature is in constant play for self-reflection, making one feel humble in the presence of nature's vast reservoir of amusement and wonder.

For ages, all creative personalities have drawn inspiration from nature. Jibanananda Das, the famous nature poet of Bengal, could capture the essence of nature in pure and simple terms that hardly anyone else could have. William Wordsworth, John Keats, and Robert Frost, among others, are notable English poets from a bygone era. They absorbed and used nature for their artistic expression, to contemplate deep philosophical questions of life and death. I am not in their company. I hardly write poems, but I try to understand what they were reaching for. But today it is not about poets or poems.

I am not writing today as someone who studies poetry, though I love it. And I am not writing about nature in any grand sense. I am writing about a door. A plain white door in my kitchen.

When I came to America in 2013, I made a choice - to slow down, to be present with my children, to make our house feel like a home. The kitchen became one of the centers of that. For a household like mine, which continues to enjoy Bangladeshi food, cooking is not a quick thing. It is time, and attention, and care.

Two years ago, we bought this house. It is not large. We wanted to make the most of the space, so during the renovation, we temporarily sealed the kitchen door to use that corner as extra prep space. More counter space. More efficiency. It made sense on paper.

But once I started working in that kitchen, something felt wrong. I could not name it at first. Every time I looked at that corner, my heart felt heavy. Something had terribly gone missing. Then I understood. I missed the feeling of opening that door - that sight of the blue sky, that gentle morning breeze playing on my face, the sound of birds chirping, and the splash of pouring rain. I had sealed myself in without realizing it. The kitchen worked. But it had no life.

To redo a renovation you just finished - people thought I had lost my mind. Maybe it looked that way. But I knew what was missing. We found a good contractor, salvaged what we could from the cabinetry, and replaced a new white door back where the old one had been.

The day it was installed, I opened it and just stood there.

I could breathe again.

Now I open it every morning. I hear the birds. I feel the air. The kitchen is itself again. My kitchen backyard is a humble place. It does not boast of any lavish greenery or a perfectly landscaped sight. However, it still shows the sky we all see, and still lets in the warmth and rain the season offers.

This door has become something more to me than a door. I think about it when I think about the future - about the years ahead, and eventually the end of them. I hope it stays. I hope my children, when they miss me, will think to open it. To stand where I stood. To look at the sky from that frame. If they feel even a little of what I feel when I stand there, I think they will find me. Thinking of the door as I write this, I realize how a window - an outlet to nature - was instrumental for Van Gogh in creating his masterpiece Starry Night. That a simple, small window could generate such creative expression is unbelievable.

Nature is not just an inspiration for writers. It shapes how we feel on an ordinary Tuesday. When I was sitting with all of this, Christina Rossetti's poem Song came to me. It was already saying what I was trying to say. I have borrowed her opening lines and her closing refrain - because to me, they are irreplaceable. I do not know a better way to express what I feel. And I put my own words in between. It is a small tribute - to her, and to a white door that gave me back my sky.

The Door

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree.

Instead, come to this room,

Where the sage meets the white,

Open the door to the backyard

And let in the sky and the light.

Hear the birds as they chatter and play,

Reach for the rain with your hand,

Feel the sun on your skin when it falls

In this quiet, green corner of land.

Stand there a moment, eyes closed,

Let the breath of the world fill the air;

Just open the door, and you’ll find me there.

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.