Melting Walls

English lessons come in all shapes and sizes. I do phone lessons walking through fields, vineyards and Venice and live lessons in parks, kids' bedrooms and my garden (that's British for yard). The grammar stays the same, but the people, places and things change.

For the past several months I thought I'd been doing an English lesson at the back door of a 335-year old church. I share the shady stoop with a student who's too embarrassed to speak English where someone might hear him. We arrive by car, walk through the little churchyard and reach a well-weathered door accessible only on foot. It seemed like 'a' service entrance, for the delivery and removal of whatever goods might come and go from a church (God only knows). But then I discovered it was 'the' service entrance; the one used for Sunday services when the priest still delivered the weekly mass.

The day I discovered I'd been resting my back on the front door was the same day I realized I'd been oblivious to what lie on the other side. Distracted by the sloping green lawn, cypress trees and English mistakes on my side of the door, I'd never considered the possibility of an eavesdropping ear getting a free lesson on the other side.

I decided to search for photos of the church. I was surprised to find that the dark, dusty curtains visible through the barred windows from the outside are bright red on the inside. The nook for the small altar has pink columns and the walls are vanilla buttercream. In the middle of the room a small blue table shows through under its lacy tablecloth. The brown wooden pews face each other instead of facing the altar. It looks like a tiny room in a Victorian dollhouse.

My little glimpse of the inside has changed the way I approach the stoop. The church has become more than just a backdrop for the weekly lesson. I visualize the photo and wonder if I'll ever really see what's on the inside. I still spread out my waterproof blanket for two, but my studnet no longer brings his plastic bag filled with newspapers (emergency temporary seating for many Italians). Instead of lighting anti-mosquito spirals for the hot, summer lessons we light candles for the dark, autumn ones. After months of ignoring the cold, closed door now I feel its presence.

Doors, like lessons, come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps at first we're oblivious to them. But when our curiousity is peaked, there's nothing left but the hope to discover what lies on the other side. Closed doors don't always protect us. Opening them could reveal a sweet world with vanilla buttercream walls. And if we find the courage to be truly confessional, even the walls might start to melt.