On the Threshold of a New Year (Part 1)
The New Year has long been associated with thresholds. The month of January was named after the Roman god Janus, who was considered, in essence, the god of thresholds, both literal and figurative: the divine being was thought to oversee all comings and goings, beginnings and endings. He is depicted as a figure with two faces, one looking backwards, one forwards. Statues of Janus represent visually what many of us do in some form or other at the turn of the year: reflect on the past and plan for the future. Often this takes the form of New Year’s resolutions.
I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions myself, but over the past few years I’ve become more reflective about my goals, my habits, and the direction I want them to take me in the coming months. Recently I’ve been pondering the word “threshold,” its various meanings, and the ways they relate to my own experience and mindset at the beginning of a new season.
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The most common use of the word refers to the piece of wood or other material underneath a door. You step over a threshold every time you enter or exit your house, a friend’s house, a coffee shop, a place of work, a public building. In a way, thresholds represent our routines: our daily passages from one place to another, one role to another. They make me think about how my physical movements and the spaces I inhabit day after day reflect something of who I am.
In the modern Western world, we are used to categorizing our lives into measurable pieces—by the boxes drawn on a calendar (days, weeks, months) or the rotating hands of a clock (hours, minutes, seconds). We may evaluate our lives by the amount of energy we spend on different activities (work, family, friends, exercise, outdoor activities, social outings, hobbies, etc.).
But what if we tried measuring our lives by the thresholds we step over? It’s unusual for sure, but perhaps a more embodied way to reflect on the content of our days.
For all the things we tell ourselves and others about who we are and what we’re trying to become, so often who we are does not match our words or ideals. Frederick Beuchner says, “where your feet take you, that is who you are.” The truth of the matter is this: what we do says far more about us than the sum of all our words, ideals, and intentions.
So maybe it’s time for me to get curious. Where do my feet take me?
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Writing this on a snow day, I must admit I haven’t yet passed even one threshold (well, the ones between my bedroom, living room, and kitchen, but that’s it). Still, there are plenty of places my feet take me on an average week.
My feet take me through the hallways of a small private school where I teach children to play the piano and at the same time how to work toward a long-term goal, hone fine motor skills, think analytically, unleash creatively, and build self-expression and confidence where it did not exist before. This challenging but rewarding adventure takes place in a small, sunny practice room, one half-hour lesson at a time.
My feet take me outside the enclosure of walls, on walks down a favorite narrow road that skirts the local farm and horse pastures. The rhythm of my gait and the beauty around me are an invitation to be refreshed if I can manage to quiet my brain enough to be present in the moment.
My feet take me into the sanctuary at my church, where each week I sing and pray and listen; where I am called to something of eternal importance; where I’m part of a faith community that I value and that values me. Living by faith does not mean that life is easier, but the truths I hold and the truths that hold me are what gives my life meaning and beauty and purpose.
My feet take me over wooden decking on a darkening Tuesday evening and through the kitchen door into the warm light of a friend’s house where we meet monthly for book club. I’ve always loved words, stories, characters, and ideas. This is a place where I get to cozy up with tea and friends and discuss all these things. It’s a small, imaginative oasis in the midst of busy weeks.
My feet take me to physical therapy and appointments with specialist doctors. Here are some of the less-than-glamorous spaces I spend time in—the practical implication of a body dealing with chronic illness. As I enter familiar medical buildings, there are two truths that resonate inside me: it’s a lot of work taking care of this body, and I’m so very grateful to be alive.
My feet take me into my car on road trips to visit nieces and nephews who offer squeals of delight and hug attacks and immediate invitations to play, sometimes even before my shoes have crossed the threshold and found their way onto the shoe rack.
My feet take me up a concrete step and through the glass door of a small studio where I’ve started taking a drop-in dance class that gives me aerobic exercise, sore calves, and joy in a form I’ve never experienced before.
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When I take time to reflect on all this, I realize that the places my feet take me—each of the thresholds I cross on a regular basis—represents not only an activity I participate in, but a community I belong to. Some are joined by necessity, some by choice, but each one plays a role in shaping who I am, and vice versa.
And so I ask myself: how do I want to be involved in these communities moving forward? In the year ahead, how can I give in meaningful ways? How can I receive in meaningful ways? How will I be challenged? How might I encourage another person facing challenges? How might I keep my eyes open to new opportunities? How might I savor the good things I already have?
We probably all ask ourselves similar questions from time to time. But this year, I’m finding it refreshing to ask them while standing in the doorways of my regularly frequented spaces.
And as someone who’s not really into New Year’s resolutions (and quite frankly, who struggles long and hard to form new routines and habits even after setting a goal), I’m also just glad to know: it’s not only January that is a turning point, a fresh start. I have the opportunity for meaningful moments of reflection and redirection every time I step over a threshold.