The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic

Host: The sky was a deep bruised violet, the kind of twilight that blurs the line between endings and beginnings. The sea lay still, a mirror of liquid silver stretching endlessly toward the horizon, where the last embers of the sun trembled like dying lanterns.

A small beach café sat at the edge of the shore, its lights flickering softly in the breeze. Inside, Jack leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee gone cold. Across from him, Jeeny sat by the open doorway, her bare feet brushing against the wooden floorboards, her eyes fixed on the restless horizon.

The air was heavy with salt, silence, and something sacred — that suspended quiet that always comes just before revelation.

Jeeny: reading softly from the small notebook she carried everywhere
“Emily Dickinson once said, ‘The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, his voice low
“Trust Dickinson to turn a door into theology.”

Jeeny: smiling back, eyes still on the horizon
“She wasn’t wrong. Most people spend their lives barricading their souls. Locking every door. Closing every window. Afraid the wind might bring something they can’t explain.”

Jack: taking a slow sip, his voice thoughtful
“Yeah, but leaving the door open — even a crack — it means you’re inviting in everything. The beauty, the chaos, the ache. Dickinson makes it sound noble. But it’s dangerous, too.”

Host: The wind lifted through the doorway, bringing with it the smell of seaweed and rain. The curtains billowed softly, a living metaphor for her words — the soul’s thin veil trembling before the unknown.

Jeeny: turning toward him, voice calm but fierce
“Dangerous? Maybe. But what’s the point of safety if it costs you wonder? You can’t protect yourself from ecstasy without killing curiosity.”

Jack: leaning against the counter, thoughtful
“Yeah, but I’ve seen people broken by experience too. Not everything the soul lets in is light. Sometimes it’s loss, betrayal, grief — the kind that stays long after the moment’s gone.”

Jeeny: nodding softly, her eyes gentling
“True. But even those — especially those — are part of what she meant by ecstatic. The word doesn’t just mean joy. It means standing outside yourself. Being taken beyond your limits. Ecstasy isn’t comfort — it’s surrender.”

Host: The waves crashed softly against the shore, rhythmic, eternal. The café lights flickered, painting their faces in shades of gold and shadow — two souls caught between fear and faith, longing and letting go.

Jack: after a long pause
“‘The soul should stand ajar.’ You think that’s possible? In this world? A world that’s more about guarding your peace than risking it?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Maybe that’s exactly why she said it. The world builds fences — she offered a door. She’s telling us not to let our souls grow stale. Not to trade awe for comfort.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-resigned
“You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: shaking her head
“It’s not. It’s the hardest thing — to stay open. To live unarmored. But that’s where life happens. Between the shut door of fear and the open threshold of trust.”

Host: The wind grew stronger, rattling the empty wine glasses on the tables, as if reminding them that all things — even silence — must move eventually.

Jack: quietly
“Maybe that’s what makes people close up. The first time you let the world in and it hurts, you start building walls. Little ones at first, then taller, then thicker. Until one day, you can’t even remember what the air felt like before you shut it out.”

Jeeny: softly, her gaze distant
“I think Emily knew that too. She wasn’t naive — she lived most of her life behind closed doors, but her poetry was the crack she kept open. Her soul was her window.”

Jack: smiling faintly
“She was always standing ajar — but from the inside out.”

Host: The rain finally began, light at first, then steady — a cleansing percussion against the roof, a whisper of renewal. The smell of wet earth rose like incense.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself
“Maybe that’s all we can do. Keep one part of ourselves ajar. Not wide open — just enough for light to find us. Enough for grace to slip in.”

Jack: looking out the window, his voice quieter now
“And for pain, too. Because you can’t have one without the other.”

Jeeny: nodding
“Exactly. Ecstasy isn’t about escape. It’s about expansion. To live fully is to risk being moved — even if it breaks you.”

Host: The lights flickered again, and the café seemed to breathe — the walls sighing with the sound of rain, the sea roaring softly beyond.

Jack: after a long silence
“You think the soul ever closes completely?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“No. Even when people try, the world finds a way in. A song. A sunset. A voice that reminds you of what you’ve forgotten. That’s what Dickinson meant, I think — the soul’s natural state is openness. We just forget.”

Jack: quietly
“So maybe standing ajar isn’t a choice. Maybe it’s remembering what we were built for.”

Jeeny: softly, with a warmth that felt like prayer
“To be changed. To be moved. To be undone, and still grateful for it.”

Host: The rain softened, the storm passing quickly, leaving the air fresh and cool. The ocean shimmered faintly under the starlight now breaking through the clouds.

And in that tender quiet, Emily Dickinson’s words seemed to ripple through the room like a living presence — not advice, but revelation:

That the soul’s purpose is not to remain untouched, but to be touched endlessly.
That ecstasy isn’t the absence of pain, but the courage to feel everything.
And that to live fully, one must always remain slightly open — like a door waiting for the miracle to arrive.

Jeeny: smiling, watching the light return across the water
“Keep your soul ajar, Jack. The next miracle might already be knocking.”

Jack: grinning softly, his voice a whisper
“Then I’ll leave the key under the mat.”

Host: The waves rolled on, steady and luminous, as the two sat in silence — their laughter mingling with the sound of the sea, with the eternal hum of life that forever invites and never demands.

And as the night deepened, the stars burned brighter, as if heaven itself had heard Dickinson’s prayer:

To live with the door of the soul ajar,
forever ready to welcome wonder.