At my in-law’s home, the guest room’s door has a beautiful antique Tibetan brass bell hanging from a silk cord over the doorknob. On the inside. It’s not a bell that tinkles gently like the iron one I have outside to catch the wind. It’s a bell that dongs brashly (brassly?) whenever the door is moved with any force at all.
I’m not sure if it’s meant as such, but it has become a forced meditation for me: to open the door without having to listen to the bell. To step back and open the door slowly, as I really haven’t anywhere I need to rush when I’m here. Sometimes, I’ve discovered, the forced meditations are the best, since they require that I think about what I am doing; they force me to be present.