It’s there, on the doors of most merchants and restaurants, on banners over the gates of state fairs, circuses and polling places, offices, libraries, and government institutions: an incitement to rapture. Entrance. En-trance. A reminder to snap out of the mundane and into the depths, to see with different eyes. What’s beyond these doors is deep, dig?

Sure, obviously that’s not what they mean. The word’s meant to be snapped in half cleanly, entr-ance: an occasion for entering. Kin to maintenance, to keep things up, or clearance, to move ’em out. But even then, entrance is to go in. Yourself, not just your stuff. To venture inside, to open each nested Russian doll until you get to the core, the baby doll, the seed of everything.

Who notices? Who cares? Maybe kabbalists, juggling Hebrew characters and occasionally the odd English word on the bookstore door. Maybe trendy spiritual pickpockets, aping the kabbalists. Maybe also the bored but wide-eyed of the world.

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