Behind my bedroom door

Right now, there is no door.

In fact, there's hardly a bedroom. At the moment, bereft of beds or electricity or even a real ceiling, it's just a wooden box.

In what feels increasingly like a move that races counter to my usual prudence (it's a big chunk of my retirement money), I'm having our house renovated -- adding a smaller second story, taking out a bathroom, adding a new laundry room/bathroom/bedroom upstairs.

After working in my bedroom or kitchen for more than six years, I'm going to have loft space for an office. I can almost taste the Pulitzer.

One of the contractors is a British guy who has spent a lot of time living in New Mexico, where he created his own house. That's a look I'm going for (on a beer budget) -- open space, soaring ceilings, lots of exposed wood -- and light.

Light pouring in from the big windows in the loft.

Light glittering across the wooden floors in the dining room.

Light falling like honey through the French door in the family room.

After talking to British Richard, I had an idea -- why not a door (instead of a window) in the bedroom?

A slider to let in more sunshine when the days are shorter.

A walkway into the garden -- a way to get my feet (and perhaps someone else's, down the line) wet with morning dew.

Township code says we need to have a deck for the door (so drunken guests don't fall out a few feet into the basement well)?

So there will be a small deck -- ideal for two chairs, and a place to have a cup of tea and watch the deer at dusk.

We're at the point where I'm a bit panicked about the money, and every dollar has to stretch -- so it wasn't an easy decision.

But it wasn't a tough one, either --that door represents new possibilities, a fresh perspective, and perhaps the shot of vision I need.

What's behind your bedroom door? Is there a place, perhaps, for an opening into your own lighter future?

You never know ...until you try.