The Herald tries again, with fewer titles.
The monk responds again, “We don’t know him.”
And the Herald tries a third time. This time using the forename of the emperor, describing him as "a mortal, sinful human being [who] requests permission to enter.” At which point the door is opened and the Capuchin monks exclaim, "So they may enter."
“A mortal, sinful human being.” - part three of the Habsburg Knocking Ritual
At the door of the ordinary day
I’m thinking of an old rule
from the Habsburg court,
the way emperors once entered their own chambers.
The chamberlain would ask, Who is there?
And the first answer came heavy with titles:
Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary,
Bearer of this crown, that inheritance.
The reply was always the same:
I do not know you.
A second knock.
Fewer titles this time.
Still refused.
Only on the third knock -
after the crowns, the lands,
the centuries of importance were set aside -
would the answer come:
A human being.
A sinner.
A mortal.
That was when the door opened.
I think of that now,
standing before my own closed doors.
I knock first as who I think I am -
my work, my habits,
the version of myself that rehearses explanations.
Nothing moves.
I knock again as who I’ve learned to present -
steady, capable, untroubled.
Still closed.
The last knock is quieter.
No résumé.
No argument.
Just: It’s me.
And the strange thing is -
that’s usually enough.
So I try to remember the lesson
whenever I step toward love,
or loss,
or whatever change is waiting.
Before I enter,
I have to leave something behind.
The world doesn’t ask
who I say I am.
It waits to see
who remains
when everything impressive
stays in the hallway.
GBS jr
2016
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