People don't revise ceilings often. They're hard to reach and nobody looks at them. Often, even very formal places will have exposed cords and pipes and vents up there. You can see the age of a place in the modernity of the light fixtures and in the paint peeling and in the patches. Even if you don't know architecture, and I don't, you can tell the time period. People are lazy about ceilings, and laziness means revealing the ravages of time and the embarrassment of change.
And there's nothing more beautiful than that.
So the church side room where I have my meetings (see my previous post if you're curious about the meetings) has a door on the ceiling. My first thought was "oh, a cellar door!" which seemed like the most beautiful phrase possible in the English language, but I looked outside and there wasn't space for a second story.
My fascination with ceilings intensified after that day.
So I stayed late after last night's meeting, under the guise of helping to clean up. And I stacked up the chairs and tables into a makeshift staircase, and got to the door and opened it, and stepped through the ceiling door upside-down.
Up and through and around.
And when I came out the other side of the door, I wasn't in another room. Instead I was a ground-up spice mix, suspended and dissolved in a delicious stew.
(I'm borrowing Internet from the potatoes here.)