I am small, yet beautiful.
Inside me are tucked
ancient instructions carefully
written, prescribed by both
tradition and religious law.
I am called Mezuzah.
My name means “doorpost.”
I am placed so that seeking
fingertips can brush across
me as one enters or leaves,
fulfilling a biblical commandment.
At my most basic, I am a symbol
that our homes are sacred places.
Oddly, the woman who affixed me here
is not Jewish, nor even particularly religious.
If she has gods, they live in her garden.
But the idea of doorways, of passages,
is a mystical concept that intrigues us all.
Doorposts are symbols of a journey,
reminders to pause, to make ready,
before taking that next step in or out.
They whisper
take care of
what, and who,
you find within.
They caution
be observant
as you move
through and on.
Finally, remember that some doorways
may be invisible until you have already
passed through, the mezuzah hidden,
yet still affixed firmly to your heart
where brushing fingertips might find
it and heed the scrap of prayer within.
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