Doorways and Barriers

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about how every encounter you have with someone results in the two of you moving toward good, or away from good. Now I didn't mean to sound overly Zoroastrian in my suggestion, but I did want to make a point about the impact we have on others.

The choices we make, the words we use, the ways we make people feel, matter. Yet at the same time, we are not just producers of emotion, we are also recipients of positive and negative messages and stimuli as well.

After being inspired by a fellow educator named Marlena Gross-Taylor's use of the terms "barriers and doorways," I decided to encourage my students to think beyond their own impact by also noticing the messages their worlds were sending them through this idea of metaphorical "barriers" and "doorways" in their day.

I wrote the words above on the whiteboard, answered a handful of questions about what a metaphorical barrier or doorway might look/feel like, and the students were off and running. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, so they'd had plenty of stumbles and successes, yet nothing prepared me for reality: students were able to recall more than twice as many barriers as they could doorways.

Was this true? Were their days full of stumbles, or did they just remember it that way? Did barriers require more of their attention, whereas doorways merely asked them to sprint through, catch their breath, and frantically search for the next trial demanding their attention?

Well I'm certainly not a trained professional in conducting psychological studies, but it awakened my mind to buzzing.

There has been plenty of press in the past five years emphasizing grit and resilience as necessary components of long-term success.  Accordingly, I wonder if, perhaps, my students see barriers not because they are pessimistic or perfectionist, but because they recognize these as opportunities to better themselves, and to learn. Just as we learn little from those with whom we agree, perhaps we grow most from the barriers.

What I wonder, though, is how we--as teachers and parents--can rebrand barriers to think of them as doorways through which we simply can't figure out how to maneuver.

I once read a story about a Scotsman who lived in the 19th century and dreamt of becoming a discus thrower. At the forge by his home he created an iron discus after having read a description of one in a book. He had never been trained, nor had he seen anyone compete in the event...he simply loved the idea of the competition. So there it was, in empty fields of the Highlands that this young man began to throw his disc into the air until he felt he was reaching the distances outlined in his book as being world-class. When he ventured to the city for a competition, however, he learned that the discs had a core of wood, and only the outer shell was made of iron.

He threw the discs as though they were tea saucers, winning every competition in which he took part for the remainder of his life.

Perhaps my students are like this young Scotsman...they are maneuvering barriers now to prepare them for challenges later in life. Maybe they know that life will be hard and so they're piling pressure on themselves because of that.

But what are we teachers to do? How can we convince them that they don't need to hurl discs of iron for the horizon? How can we convince them to see the wildflowers in that very field? How can we help them look for shapes in the clouds, and learn to be still in the peaceful presence of nothing? Is there a place for this? Doorways don't always need to open toward winning or success. What if they just open toward being comfortable in our own skin and knowing that how we are is enough, and worthy of celebration?


Yesterday, one of my students volunteered to share her religion with the class. She prepared a presentation, brought props, and she spoke from the heart. We learned of her beliefs, her alphabet, her traditions, her values. We held artifacts that matter deeply to her. We struggled to pronounce words in her language, and she calmly smiled and urged us to try again, but with our lips like this.

It was beautiful, and it was hard for her to stand up there. For her entire time as a classmate, perhaps her faith has been a barrier, but by sharing it, by trusting us, she created a doorway.

Here's to turning barriers into doors and celebrating them--and ourselves--as we cross each threshold.