“In its most literal definition, a threshold is a strip of wood or stone at the base of a doorway. In many houses, it is a sill intended to keep the mud from washing into the home. In my cold northern climate, it is also an important barrier to keeping the cold from sweeping into the house in the winter. In China, a threshold might be three or more inches high, keeping the rainwater outside but also encouraging attentiveness and an awareness of the honor of being invited into someone’s home.
The word threshold also describes the doorway itself and the larger entrance into a building or home. It represents a contact point between interior safety and the outside world. Traditionally, it has been regarded as a site of encounter, risk, and danger. It can be a place of separation, requiring us to leave something, someone, or perhaps even some part of ourselves behind when crossing in either direction. It is a locus of vulnerability where we face the possibilities of transformation, not only in our surroundings but often in identity. On the other side of a threshold, we might be required to do things we’ve never done before, to face fears we have shunned for years, or to discover new gifts as well as limitations.
Honoring the risks and challenges present on the threshold, many cultures have stories, rituals, blessings and sometimes even deities offering protection and safe passage. In ancient Rome, the god Janus reigned over comings and goings. His image, carved over the gates of Roman cities, showed two faces connected at the back and pointed in opposite directions. With one face looking outward from the city gate and the other looking in, Janus provided protection while reminding those passing in either direction to notice what they were leaving and where they were going. Here, in the pages of this book, I hope you will find protected time for similarly noticing both what you are departing from and where you are headed, whatever the thresholds you are crossing.”