I knocked on my friend’s door tonight. I didn’t get an answer. I knocked on their door, tired and wanting company. I didn’t get an answer. I laid my head against the wooden surface, neither cold nor warm, but sturdy and immovable, and I thought. There was no fault in the silence, people are there or they aren't. But still, I thought.
Why did humans make doors? It’s apparent to me why we made boxes to live in, to keep out the cold and keep in the warmth and safety of family or of the solitary and the singular self.
But doors are never inviting. The opening of them is, but the actual door itself isn’t. It is a closing off. A Protecting, of whatever is behind the door from whatever or whoever stands in front of it. Yes, under certain circumstances, it is the closing of the door to protect who is on the outside from who is on the in. But, this is rarely the case.
But it is always a guard against, a protecting of the owner or guest of the house to give them some piece of mind, to soothe the instinctual urge to scan one’s surroundings for predators and thieves.
A genius invention, to be sure. But, at the same time, it has served as a symbol of a silent and well-accepted rule that society seems to live by. And though we, in our own ways, try to be kind and inviting to one another, this “silent” rule shows just the opposite. We all believe in barriers, in walls or doors or preventions of some kind to letting people in. Both physical and spiritual. We all have barriers. And, while we would love to let the world in as brothers and sisters in a perfect and utopian world, we panic a little at even the slightest suggestion for us to rid ourselves of our own walls and barriers.
Others may rid themselves of their protection, but you would always keep your walls if only they are the size of garden walls. Even if you were forced to tear them down, you would keep a few small stones for a comfort of memory. We cannot rid ourselves of our walls, it seems, because we are scared. Always.
We come into the world, wrapped inside of our mothers, then into a blinding light where we are wrapped inside of a less comfortable hospital blanket. From there, we must venture out into the world and figure for ourselves what should be done with our lives. This terrifies us. We are alive, and we are terrified by it. Wonderfully and ecstatically terrified.
We no longer have our mothers when we are venturing through the thickets of the world and people, and so we look for some kind of comfort. No one will wrap us up in blankets or in the arms of our mothers, so we do what only comes naturally to most of us. We build walls, inner, and outer. We build them to feel safe.
And they are so interesting, these walls, because they are so necessary, and yet, so harmful. They are necessary because we must walk alone in this world, though we have company, we are separate and must learn how to stand on our own feet and find the strength to thrive.
But the walls are harmful as well because too much protection, too much keeping out of the unknown will prevent understanding and growth. Understanding of others and the things we find strange, and growth of ourselves and the ones we hide from. When the walls come down, and we really see each other, we learn from and bout one another, and find that, more often than not, that we and the strange ones are more alike than we first knew. We are worlds apart, and immeasurably alike.
The walls are real, yet imaginary. Necessary, yet harmful. Maybe, one day, we can learn to build smaller walls, ones that only come to the knee or ankle. Maybe we can respect the moss that grows along its tops, healthy at their altitude, and see each other over the barrier's small stature. Maybe, we can learn to make each other feel safe through our own company and understanding. Maybe we can feel safe and trust just through kindness. Kindness and, empathy build a strong protection and make deeper connections than a wall ever could, even though it is one of the first things humans learn to build.
But, look at any child and you know, we learned how to be kind first.
