essay about adulthood is knocking at my door

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10 painful signs that adulthood is knocking at your door, oh boy, i'm getting old..

When we were young and naive, we couldn't wait to grow up. But now that I'm at the doorstep of adulthood, I'm starting to panic. Where's the pause button for life when you need it?

We all mature at different paces, so some people may experience adulting at a young age. I had to grow up early and learn how to take care of myself. School definitely didn't prepare us for the real world.

Here are some signs that you're hitting adulthood.

1. Paying bills

From phone to credit card bills, they will all attack at once. It's hard to keep money in your pocket when you have bills to pay. Especially if you live on your own, you have to start budgeting your money carefully. This also includes paying off those wonderful student loans.

2. Moving out/finding your own place

These days it's popular for young adults to stay under their parents' roof. But eventually, there will come a time where you will want your own space. The cost of living, especially in cities, can be super expensive, so learning how to save and budget will play a big role in this.

3. Filing taxes

They definitely didn't teach us this in high school, therefore a lot of young adults have no clue what taxes are or how to file them. As soon as you graduate from high school, start learning from your parents or adults around you how to file taxes. It will definitely benefit you in the long haul.

4. Friends start getting married or pregnant

Have you ever scrolled on Facebook and saw a friend announcing their engagement or pregnancy? Then you suddenly start thinking about your life and having a panic attack?

5. Health insurance is important

Young adults usually don't have to think about this since they are most likely within their parents' household. But when you get your own health insurance, it's very important to make sure it's updated. Stay on top of those renewal forms because it's very easy to lose your insurance.

6. A career over a job

Summer jobs are great and it definitely helps keep money in your pocket. But once adulthood hits, it's time to think about your career and where you see yourself working long term.

7. Drinking isn't taboo

When you were younger, it was so scandalous to get your first beer because it was something you weren't allowed to do and that was the fun in it. But for some, that excitement slows down after you turn 21 and get to walk into any bar without a fake ID.

8. Thinking about life plans

After graduating from college, that's when life really starts to settle in. You don't have classes to attend anymore, but you need to start thinking about what you want to do with the rest of your life. Pursue your career, travel, move out, etc.

9. Eat or pay your bills

When you feel the struggle of figuring out whether to eat or pay your bills, welcome to being an adult.

10. Hanging out with friends less

Sometimes it's hard to find time to hang out because everyone is busy and dealing with their own lives. But you will cherish those times when you hang out with friends more.

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Grateful beyond words: a letter to my inspiration, i have never been so thankful to know you..

I can't say "thank you" enough to express how grateful I am for you coming into my life. You have made such a huge impact on my life. I would not be the person I am today without you and I know that you will keep inspiring me to become an even better version of myself.

You have taught me that you don't always have to strong. You are allowed to break down as long as you pick yourself back up and keep moving forward. When life had you at your worst moments, you allowed your friends to be there for you and to help you. You let them in and they helped pick you up. Even in your darkest hour you showed so much strength. I know that you don't believe in yourself as much as you should but you are unbelievably strong and capable of anything you set your mind to.

Your passion to make a difference in the world is unbelievable. You put your heart and soul into your endeavors and surpass any personal goal you could have set. Watching you do what you love and watching you make a difference in the lives of others is an incredible experience. The way your face lights up when you finally realize what you have accomplished is breathtaking and I hope that one day I can have just as much passion you have.

SEE MORE: A Letter To My Best Friend On Her Birthday

The love you have for your family is outstanding. Watching you interact with loved ones just makes me smile . You are so comfortable and you are yourself. I see the way you smile when you are around family and I wish I could see you smile like this everyday. You love with all your heart and this quality is something I wished I possessed.

You inspire me to be the best version of myself. I look up to you. I feel that more people should strive to have the strength and passion that you exemplify in everyday life.You may be stubborn at points but when you really need help you let others in, which shows strength in itself. I have never been more proud to know someone and to call someone my role model. You have taught me so many things and I want to thank you. Thank you for inspiring me in life. Thank you for making me want to be a better person.

Waitlisted for a College Class? Here's What to Do!

Dealing with the inevitable realities of college life..

Course registration at college can be a big hassle and is almost never talked about. Classes you want to take fill up before you get a chance to register. You might change your mind about a class you want to take and must struggle to find another class to fit in the same time period. You also have to make sure no classes clash by time. Like I said, it's a big hassle.

This semester, I was waitlisted for two classes. Most people in this situation, especially first years, freak out because they don't know what to do. Here is what you should do when this happens.

Don't freak out

This is a rule you should continue to follow no matter what you do in life, but is especially helpful in this situation.

Email the professor

Around this time, professors are getting flooded with requests from students wanting to get into full classes. This doesn't mean you shouldn't burden them with your email; it means they are expecting interested students to email them. Send a short, concise message telling them that you are interested in the class and ask if there would be any chance for you to get in.

Attend the first class

Often, the advice professors will give you when they reply to your email is to attend the first class. The first class isn't the most important class in terms of what will be taught. However, attending the first class means you are serious about taking the course and aren't going to give up on it.

Keep attending class

Every student is in the same position as you are. They registered for more classes than they want to take and are "shopping." For the first couple of weeks, you can drop or add classes as you please, which means that classes that were once full will have spaces. If you keep attending class and keep up with assignments, odds are that you will have priority. Professors give preference to people who need the class for a major and then from higher to lower class year (senior to freshman).

Have a backup plan

For two weeks, or until I find out whether I get into my waitlisted class, I will be attending more than the usual number of classes. This is so that if I don't get into my waitlisted class, I won't have a credit shortage and I won't have to fall back in my backup class. Chances are that enough people will drop the class, especially if it is very difficult like computer science, and you will have a chance. In popular classes like art and psychology, odds are you probably won't get in, so prepare for that.

Remember that everything works out at the end

Life is full of surprises. So what if you didn't get into the class you wanted? Your life obviously has something else in store for you. It's your job to make sure you make the best out of what you have.

Navigating the Talking Stage: 21 Essential Questions to Ask for Connection

It's mandatory to have these conversations..

Whether you met your new love interest online , through mutual friends, or another way entirely, you'll definitely want to know what you're getting into. I mean, really, what's the point in entering a relationship with someone if you don't know whether or not you're compatible on a very basic level?

Consider these 21 questions to ask in the talking stage when getting to know that new guy or girl you just started talking to:

1. What do you do for a living?

What someone does for a living can tell a lot about who they are and what they're interested in! Their career reveals a lot more about them than just where they spend their time to make some money.

2. What's your favorite color?

OK, I get it, this seems like something you would ask a Kindergarten class, but I feel like it's always good to know someone's favorite color . You could always send them that Snapchat featuring you in that cute shirt you have that just so happens to be in their favorite color!

3. Do you have any siblings?

This one is actually super important because it's totally true that people grow up with different roles and responsibilities based on where they fall in the order. You can tell a lot about someone just based on this seemingly simple question.

4. What's your favorite television show?

OK, maybe this isn't a super important question, but you have to know ASAP if you can quote Michael Scott or not. If not, he probably isn't the one. Sorry, girl.

5. When is your birthday?

You can then proceed to do the thing that every girl does without admitting it and see how compatible your zodiacs are.

6. What's your biggest goal in life?

If you're like me, you have big goals that you want to reach someday, and you want a man behind you who also has big goals and understands what it's like to chase after a dream. If his biggest goal is to see how quickly he can binge-watch " Grey's Anatomy " on Netflix , you may want to move on.

7. If you had three wishes granted to you by a genie, what would they be?

This is a go-to for an insight into their personality. Based on how they answer, you can tell if they're goofy, serious, or somewhere in between.

8. What's your favorite childhood memory?

For some, this may be a hard question if it involves a family member or friend who has since passed away . For others, it may revolve around a tradition that no longer happens. The answers to this question are almost endless!

9. If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?

We all have parts of our lives and stories that we wish we could change. It's human nature to make mistakes. This question is a little bit more personal but can really build up the trust level.

10. Are you a cat or a dog person?

I mean, duh! If you're a dog person, and he is a cat person, it's not going to work out.

11. Do you believe in a religion or any sort of spiritual power?

Personally, I am a Christian, and as a result, I want to be with someone who shares those same values. I know some people will argue that this question is too much in the talking stage , but why go beyond the talking stage if your personal values will never line up?

12. If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Even homebodies have a must visit place on their bucket list !

13. What is your ideal date night?

Hey, if you're going to go for it... go for it!

14. Who was/is your celebrity crush?

For me, it was hands-down Nick Jonas . This is always a fun question to ask!

15. What's a good way to cheer you up if you're having a bad day?

Let's be real, if you put a label on it, you're not going to see your significant other at their best 24/7.

16. Do you have any tattoos?

This can lead to some really good conversations, especially if they have a tattoo that has a lot of meaning to them!

17. Can you describe yourself in three words?

It's always interesting to see if how the person you're talking to views their personal traits lines ups with the vibes you're getting.

18. What makes you the most nervous in life?

This question can go multiple different directions, and it could also be a launching pad for other conversations.

19. What's the best gift you have ever received? 

Admittedly, I have asked this question to friends as well, but it's neat to see what people value.

20. What do you do to relax/have fun?

Work hard, play hard, right?

21. What are your priorities at this phase of your life?

This is always interesting because no matter how compatible your personalities may be, if one of you wants to be serious and the other is looking for something casual, it's just not going to work.

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Challah vs. Easter Bread: A Delicious Dilemma

Is there really such a difference in challah bread or easter bread.

Ever since I could remember, it was a treat to receive Easter Bread made by my grandmother. We would only have it once a year and the wait was excruciating. Now that my grandmother has gotten older, she has stopped baking a lot of her recipes that require a lot of hand usage--her traditional Italian baking means no machines. So for the past few years, I have missed enjoying my Easter Bread.

A few weeks ago, I was given a loaf of bread called Challah (pronounced like holla), and upon my first bite, I realized it tasted just like Easter Bread. It was so delicious that I just had to make some of my own, which I did.

The recipe is as follows:

Ingredients

2 tsp active dry or instant yeast 1 cup lukewarm water 4 to 4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 cup white granulated sugar 2 tsp salt 2 large eggs 1 large egg yolk (reserve the white for the egg wash) 1/4 cup neutral-flavored vegetable oil

Instructions

• Combine yeast and a pinch of sugar in small bowl with the water and stir until you see a frothy layer across the top.
• Whisk together 4 cups of the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl.
• Make a well in the center of the flour and add in eggs, egg yolk, and oil. Whisk these together to form a slurry, pulling in a little flour from the sides of the bowl.
• Pour the yeast mixture over the egg slurry and mix until difficult to move.
• Turn out the dough onto a floured work surface and knead by hand for about 10 minutes. If the dough seems very sticky, add flour a teaspoon at a time until it feels tacky, but no longer like bubblegum. The dough has finished kneading when it is soft, smooth, and holds a ball-shape.
• Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and place somewhere warm. Let the dough rise 1 1/2 to 2 hours.
• Separate the dough into four pieces. Roll each piece of dough into a long rope roughly 1-inch thick and 16 inches long.
• Gather the ropes and squeeze them together at the very top. Braid the pieces in the pattern of over, under, and over again. Pinch the pieces together again at the bottom.
• Line a baking sheet with parchment and lift the loaf on top. Sprinkle the loaf with a little flour and drape it with a clean dishcloth. Place the pan somewhere warm and away from drafts and let it rise until puffed and pillowy, about an hour.
• Heat the oven to 350°F. Whisk the reserved egg white with a tablespoon of water and brush it all over the challah. Be sure to get in the cracks and down the sides of the loaf.
• Slide the challah on its baking sheet into the oven and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through cooking. The challah is done when it is deeply browned.

I kept wondering how these two breads could be so similar in taste. So I decided to look up a recipe for Easter Bread to make a comparison. The two are almost exactly the same! These recipes are similar because they come from religious backgrounds. The Jewish Challah bread is based on kosher dietary laws. The Christian Easter Bread comes from the Jewish tradition but was modified over time because they did not follow kosher dietary laws.

A recipe for Easter bread is as follows:

2 tsp active dry or instant yeast 2/3 cup milk 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1/4 cup white granulated sugar 2 tbs butter 2 large eggs 2 tbs melted butter 1 tsp salt

• In a large bowl, combine 1 cup flour, sugar, salt, and yeast; stir well. Combine milk and butter in a small saucepan; heat until milk is warm and butter is softened but not melted.
• Gradually add the milk and butter to the flour mixture; stirring constantly. Add two eggs and 1/2 cup flour; beat well. Add the remaining flour, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring well after each addition. When the dough has pulled together, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic, about 8 minutes.
• Lightly oil a large bowl, place the dough in the bowl and turn to coat with oil. Cover with a damp cloth and let rise in a warm place until doubled in volume, about 1 hour.
• Deflate the dough and turn it out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide the dough into two equal size rounds; cover and let rest for 10 minutes. Roll each round into a long roll about 36 inches long and 1 1/2 inches thick. Using the two long pieces of dough, form a loosely braided ring, leaving spaces for the five colored eggs. Seal the ends of the ring together and use your fingers to slide the eggs between the braids of dough.
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place loaf on a buttered baking sheet and cover loosely with a damp towel. Place loaf in a warm place and let rise until doubled in bulk, about 45 minutes. Brush risen loaf with melted butter.
• Bake in the preheated oven until golden brown, about 30 minutes.

Both of these recipes are really easy to make. While you might need to have a day set aside for this activity, you can do things while the dough is rising or in the oven. After only a few hours, you have a delicious loaf of bread that you made from scratch, so the time and effort is really worth it!

Unlocking Lake People's Secrets: 15 Must-Knows!

There's no other place you'd rather be in the summer..

The people that spend their summers at the lake are a unique group of people.

Whether you grew up going to the lake , have only recently started going, or have only been once or twice, you know it takes a certain kind of person to be a lake person. To the long-time lake people, the lake holds a special place in your heart , no matter how dirty the water may look.

Every year when summer rolls back around, you can't wait to fire up the boat and get back out there. Here is a list of things you can probably identify with as a fellow lake-goer.

A bad day at the lake is still better than a good day not at the lake.

It's your place of escape, where you can leave everything else behind and just enjoy the beautiful summer day. No matter what kind of week you had, being able to come and relax without having to worry about anything else is the best therapy there is. After all, there's nothing better than a day of hanging out in the hot sun, telling old funny stories and listening to your favorite music.

You know the best beaches and coves to go to.

Whether you want to just hang out and float or go walk around on a beach, you know the best spots. These often have to be based on the people you're with, given that some "party coves" can get a little too crazy for little kids on board. I still have vivid memories from when I was six that scared me when I saw the things drunk girls would do for beads.

You have no patience for the guy who can't back his trailer into the water right.

When there's a long line of trucks waiting to dump their boats in the water, there's always that one clueless guy who can't get it right, and takes 5 attempts and holds up the line. No one likes that guy. One time my dad got so fed up with a guy who was taking too long that he actually got out of the car and asked this guy if he could just do it for him. So he got into the guy's car, threw it in reverse, and got it backed in on the first try. True story.

Doing the friendly wave to every boat you pass.

Similar to the "jeep wave," almost everyone waves to other boats passing by. It's just what you do, and is seen as a normal thing by everyone.

The cooler is always packed, mostly with beer.

Alcohol seems to be a big part of the lake experience, but other drinks are squeezed into the room remaining in the cooler for the kids, not to mention the wide assortment of chips and other foods in the snack bag.

Giving the idiot who goes 30 in a "No Wake Zone" a piece of your mind.

There's nothing worse than floating in the water, all settled in and minding your business, when some idiot barrels through. Now your anchor is loose, and you're left jostled by the waves when it was nice and perfectly still before. This annoyance is typically answered by someone yelling some choice words to them that are probably accompanied by a middle finger in the air.

You have no problem with peeing in the water.

It's the lake, and some social expectations are a little different here, if not lowered quite a bit. When you have to go, you just go, and it's no big deal to anyone because they do it too.

You know the frustration of getting your anchor stuck.

The number of anchors you go through as a boat owner is likely a number that can be counted on two hands. Every once in a while, it gets stuck on something on the bottom of the lake, and the only way to fix the problem is to cut the rope, and you have to replace it.

Watching in awe at the bigger, better boats that pass by.

If you're the typical lake-goer, you likely might have an average-sized boat that you're perfectly happy with. However, that doesn't mean you don't stop and stare at the fast boats that loudly speed by, or at the obnoxiously huge yachts that pass.

Knowing any swimsuit that you own with white in it is best left for the pool or the ocean.

You've learned this the hard way, coming back from a day in the water and seeing the flowers on your bathing suit that were once white, are now a nice brownish hue.

The momentary fear for your life as you get launched from the tube.

If the driver knows how to give you a good ride, or just wants to specifically throw you off, you know you're done when you're speeding up and heading straight for a big wave. Suddenly you're airborne, knowing you're about to completely wipe out, and you eat pure wake. Then you get back on and do it all again.

You're able to go to the restaurants by the water wearing minimal clothing.

One of the many nice things about the life at the lake is that everybody cares about everything a little less. Rolling up to the place wearing only your swimsuit, a cover-up, and flip flops, you fit right in. After a long day when you're sunburned, a little buzzed, and hungry, you're served without any hesitation.

Having unexpected problems with your boat.

Every once in a while you're hit with technical difficulties, no matter what type of watercraft you have. This is one of the most annoying setbacks when you're looking forward to just having a carefree day on the water, but it's bound to happen. This is just one of the joys that come along with being a boat owner.

Having a name for your boat unique to you and your life.

One of the many interesting things that make up the lake culture is the fact that many people name their boats. They can range from basic to funny, but they are unique to each and every owner, and often have interesting and clever meanings behind them.

There's no better place you'd rather be in the summer.

Summer is your all-time favorite season, mostly because it's spent at the lake. Whether you're floating in the cool water under the sun, or taking a boat ride as the sun sets, you don't have a care in the world at that moment . The people that don't understand have probably never experienced it, but it's what keeps you coming back every year.

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To Adulthood.

September 6, 2020 Leave a Comment

Didn’t think I’d be saying this, but for the first time ever, I’m ready to welcome adulthood.

So it’s my 23rd Birthday

Just like that, another year has come along and I find myself pushed further and further from adolescence. At 23 years old, I’m still pretty young as far as things go. However, it’s starting to feel like I can no longer cling to the comforting “basically still a teen” rhetoric that I’ve been treasuring since I stepped into my twenties. It’s time to face the facts; I’ve entered adulthood. But it’s okay. Because this year, I actually think I’m ready.

Age really can just be a number

Going to Uni, I quickly learnt that the link between age, maturity and adulthood is far more tenuous than people make out. As a 19 year old Fresher, I had 20 year old friends that had taken gap years, friends much older that had decided on Uni later in their lives, and friends almost an entire year younger than me (September birthday problems). But none of it mattered. And nobody felt older or younger. In our little Uni bubble, we were all the exact same age, because we were all undergoing this same life experience together.

In my opinion, being a “student” is it’s own stage of life age-wise anyway. You’re in this odd, liminal stage of your life where you’re past being a teenager, but you don’t yet feel adulthood. Yes, you’re most likely cooking for yourself and living alone and doing your own washing, but you’re also usually struggling for money, still relying on your parents for things, and getting an education. Every year I grew through Uni, it never felt like I was being an adult. I felt like a student: an overgrown teen with more responsibilities and agency.

Even after graduating last year, I didn’t feel like I graduated into adulthood. I took a year out , I was exploring my options, and I was living what was essentially an extension of my Uni life. Everything’s been fun and I’ve met amazing people and I was doing a lot of growing, but it  still didn’t feel like I’d reached an age where I felt “adult”.  And honestly, it really didn’t matter, because I had started to believe it was just a fake feeling that didn’t actually exist.

Then I felt it.

Lockdown, as I’ve mentioned before, ended up being a really transformative period for me . I changed my life’s direction, worked on myself both mentally and physically, and cleared a lot of things up inside my head. It was gradual and it took a lot of effort; I didn’t just wake up one day and have my life together. However, I do feel like I just woke up one day and decided I was ready to commit to adulthood. At least, that’s what it’s felt like.

I feel older, a little more mature, and I have a lot of thoughts and make a lot of choices that are far more “adult” than ones I would have in the past. It hasn’t been super drastic, and honestly at a surface level I’m pretty much the same as I was before. But It’s the first time I’ve been able to look at myself and what I’m doing and think “If I were in this exact same space and frame of mind 10 or 20 years from now, it would still feel right.” And I think I’ve realised that that’s what adulthood means to me.

So I’m welcoming adulthood.

Honestly, the thought of having to grow up and be an adult used to terrify me. But I’m ready now. I’m ready for the growth and I’m ready for this new chapter of my life.

In all honesty, it probably won’t look or feel all that different to anyone but me. But something in my mind has switched, and my outlook is ever so slightly tinted with a different lense than it was before. Bring on 23. And bring on adulthood.

Have you started feeling like an adult yet? Let me know in the comments!

Lots of love,

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Adulthood, Essay Example

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Subtopic 1: Physical Development & Life Planning.

STAGE 1: The attainment of the stage of early adulthood is marked by the cessation of physical growth at about that time. In my own personal experience, this developmental milestone has profound consequences: I realized that I had achieved the fullness of my adult height. Indeed, one is confronted with certain physical constants, such as height and bone structure, that will be with one for the remainder of one’s life. The growth spurt has come to an end, and with it the active, eager metabolism of the maturing adolescent.

Again from personal experience, this fact is often discovered to the chagrin of many young people who enter college, upon the attainment of the ‘freshman fifteen’: as the metabolism shifts from furthering the process of physical growth to a more stable equilibrium in the body of the young adult, the individual’s habits of eating and patterns of activity may produce new consequences.

STAGE 2: Upon reflection, I realized that I could no longer take the growth of my youth for granted: that was at an end. I began making some generalizations about my eating habits, with the realization that these had been less than optimal with regards to healthful nutrition. I found these experiences very fruitful with regards to reflection, which in turn helped me to conceptualize myself as an adult, not a teen or a young person, and I know a great many of my friends felt the same way around this stage. This in turn led to experimentation: how could I eat more healthily and keep active in order to maintain high energy levels and a healthy weight?

Of course, there are novel physical demands confronting many young adults, or else novel levels of familiar physical demands. It is around this time that many young adults enter the workforce (my own first job was at the age of seventeen), and pursue at least some higher education. This job taught me the meaning of hard work: I learned what it was to work until I was falling asleep on my feet, and then get up and go to school the next day. Through reflection, though, I learned that I could take nothing for granted in life: one must work and be a productive member of society in order to take home a wage. That is life: nothing is truly free. Still, there is considerable variability here, and this variability dramatically affects life planning: some young adults choose college and not work, others choose work and not college, and quite a few choose some mixture of the two. STAGE 3: These experiences will in turn shape how they think about themselves, the nature of their work and/or studies, and their own aspirations (or lack thereof, in some cases) for the future. There are actually two very key points of variability here: an academic career versus a lower-skilled job career, and having children versus remaining childless. Some young people become parents in this stage, or may even already be parents. The financial, social, occupational, and other woes of those who procreate at this stage of life have become a virtual byword. On the other hand, some young people prudently put off the begetting of children until they are financially stable, which in practice usually means after college and/or a number of years of work. The college versus lower-skilled job trajectories, like having children at a young age versus putting it off, also affect the financial, social, occupational, and other outcomes of young people in this stage.

STAGE 4: For me, work and school served as a very good opportunity to build character and cultivate the virtues of persistence, hard work, and thrift. Through the cultivation of such noble virtues, I perfected my discipline and increased my productivity. In other words, experience and reflection enabled me to conceptualize the world in a new way. I still so many young adults for whom the lessons learned or reinforced in this period are those of indolence, sloth, and dissolution. Many young people in this stage of life experiment with alcohol, tobacco, marijuana, and other drugs for the first time, or else do so with more freedom now that they are on their own. Some become wastrels, in the fashion of the notorious stereotypes of the ‘college stoner’ and the ‘drunken frat-boy’ or ‘drunken sorority-girl’, wasting their educational opportunities as well as their health. By testing my own system of virtue against theirs of vice and dissipation, I have found the nobility of virtue confirmed: I am vastly more productive than my dissolute peers. Nor do I lack in the arena of social interaction, for many is the evening that I have passed in the company of like-minded peers, discussing matters pertaining to the cultivation of virtue and the living of the good life. Once we have done with our studies, we read and discuss Plutarch’s Lives and Plato’s The Republic, thereby combining the amiable pleasures of good company with the perfection of the mind.

Subtopic 2: Cognitive Development.

STAGE 1: When I was eighteen, it seemed that the whole world was before me, an almost unlimited vista of promise. College and the adult world beckoned, glimmering images of promise and achievement. At last, I thought, I had arrived. Reality has been steadily disabusing me from these notions ever since, starting with college and its workload. I now understand, for example, that the student debt that I and so many of my peers accumulate during this stage of our lives (those of us without rich parents to bankroll the whole thing) will follow us for many years until we have paid it all off. All those tens of thousands that I am in the process of borrowing right now will have to be paid back: I will not be able to get rid of this debt, not even by declaring bankruptcy.

STAGE 2: My point here is not to pontificate on the current structure of funding for higher education, an investment I still believe to be eminently worthwhile, but rather to make a very important point about cognitive development in early adulthood. As a teenager, I and so many of my peers lived in the moment: like the children we were, we did not think about the long-term consequences of our actions. Anyone who does not understand this about teenagers has never been one: the concerns of teenagers are overwhelmingly concerns of the present and the very near future, not the distant future. Teenagers live in the now in a way that most of them will only begin to outgrow in their twenties (if at all), as the portions of the brain responsible for the sort of reflective, contemplative thinking necessary for long-term planning complete their development. My own experiences in this regard began, as stated, with college. My parents impressed upon me the enormity of the financial obligations which I was assuming, and bade me heed the lessons of all the virtues of temperance, prudence, perseverance, and thrift that they had worked so hard to instill in me. To be sure, I made mistakes early in my college career: I experimented with a bit of the profligate and dissolute living I now decry, and my grades in certain courses suffered due to a failure to plan on my part. Reflecting upon my current situation as a college student, however, I realized that the purpose of my college education was not the sort of dissolute living to which so many of my peers were committing themselves, but rather to study hard, graduate with a useful degree, and get a job.

STAGE 3: It was time that I put away childish things, to borrow the words of the Apostle. From this I was able to generalize those behaviors that were childish and puerile, versus those that were responsible, adult, and mature. I must, I realized, leave the world of childhood and become an adult, true and entire.

STAGE 4: Finally, through testing and application, I found that by acting like an adult, I felt more like one: I had more control over my life, and I was happier and more fulfilled. Cognitive maturation is a process, to be sure. Often I feel much older than many of my peers, notably the fraternity and sorority types who seem to be hell-bent on lives of dissolution and dissipation. Such immature behavior is still quite common amongst young adults at the younger end of the spectrum, but, from what I have seen and to some degree experienced, tends to peter out as the individual matures. Post-college—and I know this very well from talking to my parents and to older friends—many young adults must adjust to new rhythms of life, either in the workplace or in graduate school. For most, this will mean at least a partial rupture with the cognitive ‘college bubble’, and a renegotiation of their conceptions of self and of their work in their new post-undergraduate context.

Subtopic 3: Socio-Emotional Development.

STAGE 1: Perhaps the cardinal feature of the socio-emotional development of the young adult concerns their relation to their parents. This relation I deem cardinal, because it arguably underwrites, or at least profoundly affects, the individual’s experience of all the other socio-emotional changes associated with the attainment of this stage. Though individual experiences are highly varied, this is a time marked by much greater independence from parents, at least in contemporary Western societies. Though this will be discussed at greater length in the next section, the thing to note here is that it is at this stage that so many people leave home, and begin to develop their own socio-emotional ties of affect on very different grounds than when they were dependent minors.

STAGE 2: For me, this meant redefining my relationship with my parents, and starting my own social life. This, then, is the time at which the young adult determines how they would like their social life, and their life more generally, to be. Will they be gregarious or anti-social? Amicable and affable, or competitive, brash, even confrontational? The responsibilities, pressures, and opportunities of this stage call for new strategies of social behavior and affect. For me, this meant redefining my relationship with my parents, and starting my own social life. And all of this, I found, has precipitous ramifications for the most seminal feature affected by socioemotional development: the identity.

Through reflection, I realized that I needed a new way of relating to others: it was no longer me and my high school friends, doing high school things and going back home at the end of the day, but rather me and my college friends, living as quasi-adults without the supervision of our parents. This certainly produced plenty of experimentation, much of which I am not at all proud of. However, this enabled me to see the folly of spending time in the company of profligate hedonists, which in turn helped me to be better at choosing my friends according to certain criteria of character and disposition—generalization and testing and application, in Kolb’s model.

STAGE 3: Like so many in this stage, I embarked on a learning process of identity development and articulation. True, for some, much of the identity may already have been formed and defined to some extent over the course of adolescence, but it is this period that invites a great deal more reflection and conceptualization on the part of the individual regarding their identity. For me, it was more the case that very little of my current identity existed in my high school years. In contemporary Western societies, identity during late adolescence is determined to a considerable extent through the crucible of the high school; come early adulthood, the individual must rethink what they think they know about themselves. As I found through experience, the narratives of self built in high school, and particularly as dependent minors, no longer suit individuals who must now navigate the often far more difficult world of early adulthood, which calls for new narratives (conceptualization), experimentation, and thus, changed experiences as a result.

STAGE 4: Occupational and educational pressures exert a great deal of influence on socioemotional development during this phase. I cannot count the number of times friends have told me how much they hate their jobs, which, because so many of them are students, are often low-skilled, low-paying jobs—‘drone work’, ‘drudge work’, ‘wage slavery’, and so on. On the other hand, higher education offers prospects for much better jobs, and the chance to become both more productive and more wealthy, which is my own aspiration. In other words, not only does the socio-emotional development in this stage affect how the individual thinks about themselves, it also affects how they think about their work, their studies, and the general shape of their life in relation to the rest of society. Having worked a number of low-skilled ‘drone work’ jobs myself, I have long since resolved to secure employment in a sector that will enable me to enjoy the privileges of better hours, better pay, and a far more satisfying avocation.

Subtopic 4: Family, Culture, & Religion

STAGE 1: In many non-Western cultures, the attainment of adulthood is marked, not by the simple act of turning eighteen, but rather with rites of passage and, at least to some degree, by marrying and starting a family. Tribal cultures, in particular, initiate young men (in particular), into manhood, sometimes through extreme rituals involving the infliction of pain, and sometimes the marking of the body through tattooing or scarification, as documented by many anthropologists. And in many societies, not necessarily tribal but still far more tradition-minded, the attainment of adulthood is marked by the assumption of new responsibilities to one’s family and even the community. In essence, for traditional cultures in parts of the world such as East Asia, South Asia, the Islamic world, sub-Saharan Africa, and Latin America, becoming an adult means starting one’s own household and one’s own family. Though what this looks like may vary considerably across cultures, what most traditional societies have in common in this regard is that the adult has new responsibilities to the social collective, whether family, village, clan, tribe, or other. I emphasize this, because the conception in the modern West is almost entirely different. Here, adulthood is often delayed through college, which allows many young adults a cushion of social support, paid for by taxpayer dollars in the form of loans and/or grants, as well as (in at least some cases) financial support from parents, and perhaps some monies earned by the student. This model is not unknown in other parts of the world, but it is a rather sharp departure from the traditional pattern over so much of the non-Western world, and the pattern that once prevailed in the West as well.

STAGE 2: I learned the above through my own studies, as well as through talking to friends who live in the Muslim world. Broadly and generally speaking, the key difference here between the West and essentially every other traditional-minded society on Earth is that between individualism and collectivism. From my own experience, I have learned and seen that the Western early adult is an individual with minimal responsibilities to family, clan (extended family), or community; by contrast, the non-Western early adult usually has such responsibilities, and is typically on a fast track to starting their own family. Additionally, certain religions, notably conservative strains of said religions, favor large families and traditional gender roles, as seen with Catholicism (especially in Latin America and sub-Saharan Africa), ultra-Orthodox Judaism, and Islam. Family still defines status in many non-Western societies, and ties of obligation and expectation that would baffle many a Westerner are second nature to many people in these societies. For example, I know from friends who live in Muslim countries that it is very common for young men in those societies to stay with their (natal) families: they live at home and return there after work. Indeed, the traditional residence pattern in many Middle Eastern, Islamic societies has long been that of the extended family group. Growing up in these societies carries many, many more obligations to family, including extended family, than I think most Westerners would even be able to comprehend. Though this pattern may seem strange to many Westerners (as I indeed expect), in fact it is the West that is strange, not the ‘rest’. One need only revisit the social history of Europe to ascertain that in fact, Western civilization was run according to similar ideas about familial obligations until the very recent past.

Between talking to my friends in Muslim countries, reading, and observing the social world around me, through reflection I saw that as a young adult living in a Western society, I have the opportunity to choose my career path and my life-path: it is not expected that I beget children to carry on the family name. It is not even expected that I marry. I can hold whatever religious and political views I wish.

STAGE 3: What all of this has meant for me is that I have been able to choose the trajectory of my life more or less as I wish: that is the lesson that I have learned, and that has been reinforced, through generalization, testing and application. The choices, I learned, are nearly endless, making generalizations about early adulthood in this regard all the more difficult. The choices are much more limited in non-Western societies in general, although of course here there is tremendous difference and variation, the more since some non-Western societies have become high-income and quite modernized (cases in point South Korea, Japan, parts of China and India respectively).

STAGE 4: My own parents were quite flexible with regards to attitudes about gender norms and gender roles. Through my readings I have come to learn that in Western countries in general, feminism in the late 19th-early 20th centuries and the so-called ‘sexual revolution’ of the 1960s, coupled with generally rising education and lower birthrates, have greatly lessened the impact of traditional gender roles and expectations, though these persist in more conservative sectors of many Western societies, notably among certain religious communities. Upon reflection, I realize that although I have been socialized into some gender norms, these are far less strict and much more malleable than those of most other societies. To a very considerable extent, I can define my own engagement with gender as I wish, even if different sectors of society will reward or censure me to somewhat differing extents for this.

Subtopic 5: Society, Media, Current Events, & Economy

STAGE 1: The contemporary West is in the throes of a great economic shift away from such traditional industrial-era mainstays as manufacturing and other forms of often manual, skilled labor, and towards the new ‘service economy’. Though this process is a complicated phenomenon, the main thing of importance for our purposes here is its effect on the life choices of young adults. Chief among these has been an impoverishment of certain sectors of the population that were already marginal with respect to their socioeconomic outcomes: sadly, the move to outsource manufacturing has disproportionately hurt African-American and to some degree Hispanic-American communities.

My own experiences, however, fall under the domain of the ‘credentialing arms race’: those with the means to go to school have found it needful to acquire more and more education in order to have a shot at a decent job. I know from talking to friends who have graduated that unfortunately, many are in for a rude awakening, when they find that their four-year degree in anthropology or ‘gender studies’, etc., is of little interest to most respectable employers other than the (mostly) taxpayer-funded world of academia.

STAGE 2: Drawing on reflection here, I make the generalization that this, coupled with the recent recession and a political climate of partisan gridlock, seems to have produced a rather balkanized spectrum of opinions: some of my friends are firmly convinced that things are getting better, and that they will be able to land decent jobs and have higher standards of living than their parents, while I and the remainder of my friends are not nearly as confident. Still others are starkly pessimistic: fears of a financial Armageddon, of global warming, and other putative disasters all loom large in the consciousness of my peers.

STAGE 3: For my own part, I strive to be a realist above all. Having older friends, who have already graduated, has helped me to cultivate reflection and more intelligently determine the course of my college career.

STAGE 4: This in turn, I hope, will help me to be more productive and able once I enter the workforce full-time after graduation. Subtopic 6: Age & Dying.

STAGE 1: To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I have yet to come to terms with the fact of my own future death. Talking to my friends, I don’t think that they have come to terms with it either. Though I can think about it rationally, it seems so far away—assuming I die of old age, that is, rather than by accident or disease.

STAGE 2: This seems to contribute to a tendency that I have noticed among my peer group especially: although we are capable of planning for the future, most of us discount it steeply. I don’t even have a 401(k), and have no plans to start one any time soon. My concerns are much more immediate: grades, time with friends, my job, paying my bills, etc. My experiences have encouraged me to reflect upon what I want from the next stage of life, but old age and dying are still very, very far away to me. Some of my peers are in serious relationships, and a few of them have even talked about marriage. I know some of my high school classmates have already married, and some even have children, both facts which make me feel old already.

STAGE 3: In this stage of our lives, life has not taught us to think so far ahead as our own deaths, and all of the changes that come with advanced age: loss of memory, loss of bodily capabilities and strength, loss of friends, family, and other loved ones. Instead, I and my peers generalize and develop theories for the next stages of our lives: work, possibly marriage, and possibly even children. Some of my friends talk about better cars and buying houses.

STAGE 4: All of this in turn produces testing and application of those conceptions regarding the next stages of our lives, working towards them in order to secure the next stage of our futures.

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107 Adulthood Essay Topic Ideas & Examples

Inside This Article

When it comes to writing an essay about adulthood, there are countless topics to choose from. Adulthood is a phase of life that presents various challenges, experiences, and opportunities for personal growth. Whether you want to explore the responsibilities of adulthood, discuss the transition from adolescence to adulthood, or analyze the impact of societal expectations, here are 107 topic ideas and examples to inspire your essay:

The concept of adulthood in different cultures.

The importance of financial literacy in adulthood.

Balancing responsibilities: work, family, and personal life.

The impact of social media on adult relationships.

The challenges of making new friends in adulthood.

The role of education in shaping adult perspectives.

The impact of childhood experiences on adult mental health.

The influence of parents on adult decision-making.

The significance of self-reflection in adult personal development.

The importance of setting goals in adulthood.

The impact of technology on the modern adult lifestyle.

The challenges of maintaining a healthy work-life balance.

The role of resilience in overcoming adult challenges.

The impact of societal expectations on adult happiness.

The challenges of maintaining physical health in adulthood.

The role of hobbies and interests in adult well-being.

The impact of societal norms on adult relationships.

The challenges of finding meaning and purpose in adulthood.

The role of spirituality in adult well-being.

The impact of cultural background on adult identity.

The challenges of navigating romantic relationships in adulthood.

The role of communication in maintaining adult friendships.

The impact of societal pressure to conform in adulthood.

The challenges of dealing with loss and grief in adulthood.

The significance of self-care in adult mental health.

The impact of work-related stress on adult well-being.

The challenges of maintaining a healthy lifestyle in adulthood.

The role of mentorship in adult professional growth.

The impact of societal expectations on adult career choices.

The challenges of managing time effectively in adulthood.

The significance of emotional intelligence in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural diversity on adult perspectives.

The challenges of maintaining romantic relationships in adulthood.

The role of self-confidence in adult success.

The impact of societal beauty standards on adult self-esteem.

The challenges of finding work-life balance in a globalized world.

The significance of adaptability in adult career development.

The impact of childhood trauma on adult relationships.

The challenges of making ethical decisions in adulthood.

The role of forgiveness in adult personal growth.

The impact of technology on adult mental health.

The challenges of navigating parenthood in adulthood.

The significance of self-compassion in adult well-being.

The impact of societal expectations on adult body image.

The challenges of managing finances in adulthood.

The role of empathy in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural stereotypes on adult identity.

The challenges of finding work-life balance in a demanding career.

The significance of lifelong learning in adult personal development.

The impact of societal pressure to conform to gender roles in adulthood.

The challenges of maintaining healthy boundaries in adult relationships.

The role of self-awareness in adult decision-making.

The impact of societal expectations on adult mental health.

The challenges of finding purpose in a fast-paced adult life.

The significance of community involvement in adult well-being.

The impact of societal expectations on adult marriage choices.

The challenges of managing stress in adulthood.

The role of optimism in adult resilience.

The impact of cultural assimilation on adult identity.

The challenges of maintaining work-life balance in a competitive profession.

The significance of gratitude in adult happiness.

The impact of societal pressure to conform to a certain lifestyle in adulthood.

The challenges of managing personal and professional relationships in adulthood.

The role of self-acceptance in adult self-esteem.

The impact of cultural appropriation on adult identity.

The challenges of finding meaning in a materialistic adult world.

The significance of social support in adult well-being.

The impact of societal expectations on adult parental choices.

The challenges of maintaining mental health in a high-stress adult environment.

The role of vulnerability in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural heritage on adult identity.

The challenges of workaholism in adulthood.

The significance of self-motivation in adult success.

The impact of societal pressure to conform to societal norms in adulthood.

The challenges of managing work-life balance in a technology-driven world.

The role of gratitude in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural diversity on adult identity formation.

The challenges of finding fulfillment in adult life.

The significance of social connections in adult well-being.

The impact of societal expectations on adult friendship choices.

The challenges of maintaining mental well-being in a fast-paced adult society.

The role of authenticity in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural values on adult identity.

The challenges of finding work-life balance in a demanding entrepreneurial career.

The significance of mindfulness in adult happiness.

The impact of societal pressure to conform to societal beauty standards in adulthood.

The challenges of managing time and energy in adulthood.

The role of trust in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural traditions on adult identity.

The challenges of finding purpose in a materialistic adult culture.

The significance of self-reflection in adult happiness.

The impact of societal expectations on adult career progression.

The challenges of maintaining mental health in a competitive adult environment.

The role of emotional support in adult relationships.

The impact of cultural assimilation on adult identity formation.

The challenges of finding work-life balance in a demanding corporate career.

The significance of self-discipline in adult success.

The impact of societal pressure to conform to societal norms on adult decision-making.

The challenges of managing personal and professional boundaries in adulthood.

The role of empathy in adult mental well-being.

The impact of cultural heritage on adult identity development.

The challenges of finding fulfillment in a consumer-driven adult society.

The significance of social engagement in adult happiness.

The impact of societal expectations on adult relationship choices.

The challenges of maintaining mental well-being in an ever-connected adult world.

The role of vulnerability in adult personal growth.

The impact of cultural diversity on adult identity exploration.

These 107 adulthood essay topic ideas provide a wide range of options to explore the complexities, challenges, and joys of this phase of life. Choose a topic that resonates with you and allows you to delve into a subject that interests you the most. Remember to conduct thorough research, provide examples and evidence, and present a well-structured argument to make your essay compelling and thought-provoking. Happy writing!

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For Almost 22 Years of My Life, I Didn't Answer the Door

Growing up, an unexpected knock at our front door was received differently by parents. My dad hated it while my mom loved it. This caused a confusing divide in our family. Do we greet or retreat?

My mom loved when people came knocking so much that she would occasionally hear phantom knocking at the door. “Do you hear someone at the door,” she’d ask. To which I’d remind her, “No mom, we’re in the car.” Whether invited or not she relished in the opportunity to welcome guests into our home. I think this was in large part because entertaining gave her a reason to light the many candles that adorned our home. My mom had only one rule when it came to her candles. They were only to be lit for guests. Those of us living in the house, weren’t candle-worthy. “I don’t wanna waste a wick,” she liked to remind us.

My dad, on the other hand, chose to flee any time someone came knocking. Sometimes even when we invited them over. As my mom ran to the door like a kid on Christmas morning, my dad would jump up from his Lazy Boy recliner, hurry past her and say, “Don’t open it until I get downstairs, Eileen.” My dad treated an unexpected knock at our door like he had just heard tornado sirens. He hid in the basement (his man cave) to protect himself from being swooped up by a funnel cloud of socializing.

Although we were a house divided, when my mom wasn’t there, my brother and I didn’t answer the door. Instead we stuck to my dad’s plan of acting like no one was home. “Close those curtains,” he’d insist upon hearing footsteps walking up our front stairs. Then we’d all head downstairs to hide.

When my brother and I were home alone and someone came knocking, we assumed it was the end. Death was imminent. We’d hide and pray. This was the only time we embraced Catholicism. We’d huddle together and recite the Lord’s Prayer in a whisper hoping God would carry our souls to Heaven, a place I was told during catechism classes, was anything you wanted it to be. All I wanted it to be was a place where no one ever comes over unannounced.

For almost 22 years of my life, I didn’t answer the door . Unless it was a friend whom I was expecting. And even then they’d have to either call/text me when they arrived or yell through the door, “Hey Joleen, it’s (insert name of non-murdering friend).” It wasn’t until I saw my door response through the eyes of another outside of my immediate family that I realized this was an abnormal response.

During my senior years of college (I say years because it took me five to get my bachelor’s degree), I lived in an apartment with my then boyfriend. A few months after moving in, there was a knock at the front door of our apartment. Naturally, I froze and then hid behind our couch. I assumed my boyfriend would do the same. I was shocked when he started walking toward the door.“Where are you going? Just be quiet and they’ll go away,” I whispered. He ignored my request, walked to the front door and opened it. I couldn’t believe it. This dude was trying to kill me. I closed my eyes and just accepted the fact that I was destined to be an episode of ABC’s “20/20.”

After what seemed like an eternity, my boyfriend returned to the living room alone and asked, “Are you OK?” I shook my head no. He looked at me confused. “It was just our neighbor. He locked himself out and needed to use my phone. What are you so afraid of?” Without hesitation I replied, “Everything.” This was the first time I had ever been honest with anyone about my anxiety – even myself. I felt both ashamed and free at the same time.

Now, 14 years later, I have yet to shake all of my door demons. I am; however, finally able to answer the door (on occasion) when unexpected visitors come knocking. But I keep the metal screen door shut and locked just in case. I also throw in a piece of the Lord’s Prayer for added protection.

Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. I forgive you unsolicited guests.

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Joleen Lunzer is an LA-based comedian, writer, podcaster & Buffy The Vampire Slayer enthusiast. She has anxiety, depression & a bit of OCD. Follow Joleen on Twitter & Instagram @joleenlunzer, Listen to her podcast, Married To Bravo on itunes and Spotify or check out her website moodygurl.com.

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A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking? Essay

There is hardly an experience as trivial and as everyday as hearing someone knocking at the door or a doorbell ringing. However, even out of such a common thing, Metcalfe and Game manage to develop a compelling and intriguing idea.

In their short story, ‘A knock at the door’, the writers manage to convey an idea that changes, whether they are for better or for worse, are a part and parcel of people’s lives, which means that being open for changes is pretty much living a full life.

Taking a closer look at the passage that starts with “the doorbell prompts drama’s primal question” to “was never to be completed” 1 , one can see that there is more in the simple description of choice than meets the eye.

At certain point, it might actually seem that the authors not merely hint at the tortures of making a choice, but also make a big metaphor for life as it is, with all its opportunities that come and go, and the threats which these opportunities conceal.

The door becomes a gateway for a countless number of events and further options to choose from; the authors make it clear that after the door is open, the person who opened it is bound to take a great amount of responsibilities that come with another acquaintance.

“The visitor could be a beggarman or a thief; it could be Archangel Gabriel, the Angel of Death or a person with good news from lottery office” 2 .

Metcalfe and Game make it clear that, opening the door, one will let the whole palette of life in, thus, changing his/her own pace, which definitely takes guts.

In addition, Metcalfe and Game touch upon the necessity of solitude, mentioning that, just because of one single visit, the work on Kubla Khan was interrupted to never be continued again.

It seems that the authors are not only showing the mechanisms of the binary opposition logics, but are also trying to break free from its realm.

Of course, they do convey the message that there are two key options, i.e. either taking the risks and going where the chance will take you, or sitting there twiddling one’s fingers and fearing the burden of responsibilities.

However, it seems that Metcalfe and Game do in fact consider the third option, that is, the possibility of lingering and rethinking the choice.

Even as the authors speak of the choice being made, they still make it clear that the moment of choice is another stage that leads to a certain self-development: “The door has become a curtain that will open to reveal the next stage of my life” 3 .

Thus, the bottom line is that whenever hearing a knock at the door, it is better to take chances and open it. Despite the fact that changes lead to the most unpredictable results and can turn one’s life completely upside down, they are a much better option than living a life as exciting as a schedule of trains.

Showing in a rather graphic way that opportunity knocks, but it does not beg, the authors managed to explain the readers how unpredictable life can be, making it obvious that a good chance is worth taking a risk.

Bibliography

Metcalfe, A & A Game, ‘A knock at the door’ in A Metcalfe & A Game (eds.), The mystery of everyday life , Federation Press, Annandale, AU, 2002.

1. A. Metcalfe & A Game, ‘A knock at the door’ in A Metcalfe & A Game (eds.), The mystery of everyday life , Federation Press, Annandale, AU, 2002, p. 65.

2. A. Metcalfe & A Game, ‘A knock at the door’ in A Metcalfe & A Game (eds.), The mystery of everyday life , Federation Press, Annandale, AU, 2002, p. 65.

3. A. Metcalfe & A Game, ‘A knock at the door’ in A Metcalfe & A Game (eds.), The mystery of everyday life , Federation Press, Annandale, AU, 2002, p. 65.

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IvyPanda. (2019, April 9). A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking? https://ivypanda.com/essays/a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-did-you-hear-someone-knocking/

"A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking?" IvyPanda , 9 Apr. 2019, ivypanda.com/essays/a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-did-you-hear-someone-knocking/.

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IvyPanda . 2019. "A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking?" April 9, 2019. https://ivypanda.com/essays/a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-did-you-hear-someone-knocking/.

1. IvyPanda . "A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking?" April 9, 2019. https://ivypanda.com/essays/a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-did-you-hear-someone-knocking/.

IvyPanda . "A Matter of Life and Death, or Did You Hear Someone Knocking?" April 9, 2019. https://ivypanda.com/essays/a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-did-you-hear-someone-knocking/.

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The door slammed shut never to be opened again

'The door slammed to be opened again'

The door slammed shut never to be opened again … Nothing can be done now.

It all started on a normal Friday morning. I was eating my breakfast: it was cereal whilst I was eating my cereal I started to think about how boring my day was going to be. While I was day dreaming I didn’t realise the time and I was suddenly awaken by my mum saying “Come on you're going to be late!” I woke up with a start and shoved my shoes on, rammed on my coat, and ran out of the door not forgetting to kiss my mum good bye. I sped up the road. Realising halfway up the road I had forgotten my packed lunch so I ran full speed back to my house, bolted through, grabbed my lunch and flew back out again. I then realised as I looked at my phone that my mum had played a small trick on me and actually I was early so I calmed myself down and decided to walk the rest of the way. When I walk, I walk with my head down because I know where I’m going so I generally don't notice things. I did notice this one thing though- a door. A door in the middle of the pavement. It was blue and it had a gold door knob  and a gold slightly rusty letter box and a brown welcome mat- it wasn't attached to a house or anything.

This is a preview of the whole essay

So I looked around the door to see if anything was behind it, nothing. I looked around the road, but it was empty too. I tried the knob at first it was stiff but I as I kept turning it it loosened up and I pushed the door open. I tried to look into it, but all I could see was a bright white light and not the rest of the pavement. So I stepped in taking one last look around before entering. At first I couldn't see anything because it was so bright, but as I kept going It become more apparent that I was in a hospital. I could see two figures in the light: as my eyes adjusted I realised who they were... they were my parents. They both looked quite a lot younger and more stressed then I had ever seen them and it became apparent why. In my mothers arms there- was a  baby. It was me. Caught in the moment I had only just realised that, that door was a door into the past. A nurse came in and took me away I assume to get some medical checks done.

So I followed her along a long narrow corridor to a giant room with row upon row upon row of babies the nurse settled baby me down on the third row four across and went about her business and left the room  I went over to where baby me was sleeping and I reached out carefully to touch my tiny little nose I moved slightly and stayed sound asleep so I decried to pick baby me up and I wriggled a little but then baby me settled  

Document Details

• Author Type Student
• Word Count 535
• Page Count 1
• Subject English
• Type of work Controlled assessment

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Literary Theory and Criticism

Home › Drama Criticism › Analysis of Thomas De Quincey’s On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth

Analysis of Thomas De Quincey’s On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth

By NASRULLAH MAMBROL on November 11, 2020 • ( 0 )

Thomas De Quincey’s essay On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth is one of the best known of his critical works-it appears in most anthologies of criticism and nineteenth-century prose, and is hailed it as “the finest romantic criticism.” “On the knocking at the Gate in Macbeth” was first published in the London Magazine in October, 1823, as an item in De Quincey’s series of “Notes from the Pocket-Book of a Late Opium-Eater.” Although he was then thirty-eight, his paper was one of his earliest critical articles and, since he had been engaged in introducing German authors to the English public, almost his first on English literature. Its two subjects-murder and stagecraft-continued to intrigue him throughout his late-developing critical career, and he even intended to enlarge this essay for his septuagenarian collected edition. He never got around to it, however-quite possibly could not find it in his bathtub file-and it was simply reprinted in the last volume, which came out posthumously in 1860.

The essay springs from a real personal experience of a dramatic effect. De Quincey begins by saying that he has always felt an unaccountable effect from the knocking on the gate right after Duncan is murdered. Sensing that it “reflected back upon the murderer a peculiar awfulness and a depth of solemnity,” he still could not explain the phenomenon: “yet, however obstinately I endeavoured with my understanding to comprehend this, for many years I never could see why it should produce such an effect.” After pausing to digress typically on the general untrustworthiness of the understanding in comparison with the senses, he returns to “fresh proof that I was right in relying on my own feeling, in opposition to my understanding” in the matter of the knocking in Macbeth . Such support he finds in a parallel incident attending a murder which took place in London in 1812, when the celebrated Williams was on the loose:

Now, it will be remembered that in the first of these murders (that of the Marrs) the same incident (of a knocking at the door soon after the work of extermination was complete) did actually occur which the genius of Shakespeare has invented; and all good judges, and the most eminent dilettanti, acknowledged the felicity of Shakspere’s suggestion as soon as it was actually realized (X, 391).

But this “proof” only reinforced his sense of the power of the knocking; it did not explain it. That remained in the final analysis for his despised understanding: “I again set myself to study the problem. At length I solved it to my own satisfaction.” Thereupon he reveals his solution, starting with the point that ordinarily our sympathy is with the victim of a murder; but since this feeling is based on the common desire for life which inspires even the lowest animals, it is not susceptible of poetic treatment. The artist, then, “must throw the interest on the murderer” and

in the murderer, such a murderer as a poet will condescend to, there must be raging some great storm of passion, jealousy, ambition, vengeance, hatred, which will create a hell within him; and into this hell we are to look (X, 392).

Into such a “hell” do we look in the whole atmosphere of the murder scene in Macbeth :

We were to be made to feel that the human nature, i.e. the divine nature of love and mercy, spread through the hearts of all creatures, and seldom utterly withdrawn from man,-was gone, vanished, extinct, and that the fiendish nature had taken its place. And, as this effect is marvellously accomplished in the dialogues and soliloquies themselves, so it is finally consummated by the expedient under consideration (X, 392).

This “expedient,” the knocking, is a sort of gate to that “hell”; it stands at the boundary between the two realms of human nature and fiendish nature and emphasizes the differences between them; it marks the brief period of change which comes at the end of a time of stress, the perceptive time of reawakening, of slowly stirring into consciousness after a spell that crucial moment which by its contrast renders vital and significant all that has gone before. By this principle it is the instant that quivering lashes and tiny sighs announce the return to normal of a fainting wife or sister that is the most affecting; it is the moment that the rattling wheels and wakening streets betoken a return to city business after the solemn passage of the funeral procession of a mourned hero, that is most moving. To put it in a formula to fit his pervasive “law of antagonism” is to be expected of De Quincey: “All action in any direction is best expounded, measured, and made apprehensible, by reaction.” The knocking at the gate, then, is a symbol of reaction:

Here, as I have said, the retiring of the human heart and the entrance of the fiendish heart was to be expressed and made sensible. Another world has stept in; and the murderers are taken out of the region of human things, human purposes, human desires. They are transfigured: Lady Macbeth is “unsexed”; Macbeth has forgot that he was born of woman; both are conformed to the image of devils; and the world of devils is suddenly revealed. But how shall this be conveyed and made palpable? In order that a new world may step in, this world must for a time disappear. The murderers and the murder must be insulated-cut off by an immeasurable gulf from the ordinary tide and succession of human affairs—— locked up and sequestered in some deep recess; we must be made sensible that the world of ordinary life is suddenly arrested, laid asleep, tranced, racked into a dread armistice; time must be annihilated, relation to things without abolished; and all must pass self-withdrawn into a deep syncope and suspension of earthly passion. Hence it is that, when the deed is done, when the work of darkness is perfect, then the world of darkness passes away like a pagentry in the clouds: the knocking at the gate is heard, and it makes known audibly that the reaction has commenced; the human has made its reflux upon the fiendish; the pulses of life are beginning to beat again; and the re-establishment of the goings-on of the world in which we live first makes us profoundly sensible of the awful parenthesis that had suspended them (X, 393).

De Quincey’s analysis of the knocking as the token that “the pulses of life are beginning to beat again” after suspension of humanity while the tiger spirit stalks, is a strikingly original one. It reveals first of all his acute sublety. It reveals further the pattern of his dramatic criticism. Three steps were necessary in the evolution of that interpretation: a feeling of the effect, an awareness and localization of that feeling, and an analysis of the causative principle involved in its production. This last step is purely intellectual, and it is the crucial one in making the criticism. Fundamentally this particular piece of criticism is psychological, for it focuses itself on the effect on the audience, and analyzes that effect by comparing similar reactions. This “voyage through Shakespearean space . . . emotional rather than intellectual,” as Ralli terms it, is rather analogous to testing patella reflexes. It is, as any criticism worthy of the name must be, based on feeling; but it is in the spirit of scientific analysis.

Although this essay is usually cited as an early study of “comic relief” in Shakespearean tragedy, the problem that De Quincey is addressing is much more complex. How close can art bring the viewer or reader to the actual horror of violent crime? What strategies of “distancing” are necessary if murder is to be considered as a fine art?

In recreating in excruciating detail the events of the Ratcliffe Highway murders, or those in the cellar of a brandy merchant in Cologne, De Quincey’s narrative may seem at odds with those conventions of intellectual deliberation that were later to become indispensable to the literary strategy of Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie. De Quincey draws from the documentary precision of journalism and the new style of reportage being developed in the newspapers of his day. For this reason, his essays on murder are more properly antecedent to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood (1966) than to the murder stories of popular fiction. Even Capote’s gory exercise in the “new journalism” of the 1960s used “matter-of-fact” police reports and official accounts of the investigation to buttress the reader against the sheer horror of the slaughter of a family which, in many of its details, closely resembled Williams’s murder of the Marr family. Not surprisingly, De Quincey occasionally achieves a “distancing” from violence with a strategy similar to that which he had studied in the scene with the drunken porter in Macbeth . What he develops, however, is not a “comic relief” that interrupts his narrative of the murder; rather it is a kind of “gallows humour” integrated into the account of the murder itself, as, for example, his transforming the murder of the baker in Mannheim into a grotesque boxing match. De Quincey also manipulates the reader’s attention simply by elaborating the psychology of fear. Although he does not omit the gory details, he does not linger over them in his usual effulgent style. Creating his shock effects, rather, with a sparse economy of prose, he then shifts attention from the brutality of the murder to the response of the potential victim: the boy feigning sleep in his bed while the murderer is slitting the throat of his companion; the servant-girl returning to the darkened household in which the fiendish murderer still lurks.

Much attention has been devoted to the Shakespearean criticism of Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. De Quincey’s Shakespeare is preeminently a poet rather than a playwright. Lamb, in his essay “On the Tragedies of Shakespeare, considered with reference to their fitness for stage representation” (1811), argued that a Shakespearean play is too rich and multifaceted to be represented adequately in the theater and should therefore be read in solitude. But Lamb nevertheless read the plays with attention to plot, character, and dramatic form. De Quincey’s Shakespeare is a wielder of words who informs his masterly command of rhetoric and eloquence with keen insight into the workings of psychology. “On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth,” which De Quincey describes as “psychological criticism,” is an exploration into the subjective mechanism of audience response. His encyclopedia article, too, is a kind of “psychological biography” in which lines from the plays are cited as Shakespeare’s personal revelations concerning actual experiences in his life. These two essays, plus the posthumously published fragment on “Shakespeare and Wordsworth,” are the only pieces specifically addressed to Shakespeare, but they represent a mere fraction of De Quincey’s extensive preoccupation with Shakespeare’s works. His references to Shakespeare’s language and art are diffused throughout his critical prose. After Milton and Wordsworth, Shakespeare is the author most often quoted by De Quincey.

From my boyish days I had always felt a great perplexity on one point in Macbeth : it was this: the knocking at the gate, which succeeds to the murder of Duncan, produced to my feelings an effect for which I never could account: the effect was – that it reflected back upon the murder a peculiar awfulness and a depth of solemnity: yet, however obstinately I endeavoured with my understanding to comprehend this, for many years I never could see why it should produce such an effect.

In its concern with “effects,” De Quincey’s “psychological criticism” is a mode of “reader response” criticism. The nature of the critical inquiry that he brings to Shakespeare is one grounded in his “boyish days” when literary aporia began to gather in mysterious involutes.

Why the porter’s scene should have the power to contribute “a peculiar awfulness and a depth of solemnity” to Duncan’s murder, De Quincey explains, finally became clear to him when he read the account of the Ratcliffe Highway murders. On that occasion, while Williams was still lurking in the Marr’s house, having already slit the throats of Marr, his wife, the apprentice boy, and even the infant in its cradle, the servant-girl returned from an errand and knocked at the door. With this actual occurrence of the very incident “which the genius of Shakespeare had invented,” De Quincey gains insight into the mystery of the involute:

The murderers, and the murder, must be insulated – cut off by an unmeasurable gulf from the ordinary tides of human affairs – locked up and sequestered in some deep recess: we must be made sensible that the world of ordinary life is suddenly arrested – laid asleep – tranced – racked into a dread armistice: time must be annihilated; relation to things without abolished; and all must pass self-withdrawn into a deep syncope and suspension of earthly passion. Hence it is that when the deed is done – when the work of darkness is perfect, then the world of darkness passes away like a pageantry in the clouds: the knocking at the gate is heard; and it makes known audibly that the reaction has commenced: the human has made its reflux on the fiendish: the pulses of life are beginning to beat again: the re-establishment of the goings-on of the world in which we live, first makes us profoundly sensible of the awful parenthesis that had suspended them.

His literary criticism, De Quincey repeatedly insists, is built upon a foundation of psychology. He approaches Shakespeare as a playwright whose power derived from penetrating psychological insight into character. De Quincey, as we have seen, describes the method of “On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth” as “psychological criticism,” and he introduces his article on Shakespeare for the Encyclopaedia Britannica as a “psychological biography.”

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Door: Essays by readers

We gave our readers a one-word writing prompt: “door.”.

In response to our request for essays on doors, we received many compelling reflections. Below is a selection. The next topic for reader submissions is bridge — read more .

My mother didn’t allow closed doors. She needed light and air, and she expected tidiness in the rooms the doors opened into. I needed space of my own (and to make a bit of a mess). Naturally I went the opposite way with my own daughters: feel free to close your doors; I’d rather not see your mess. I love looking at the doors themselves anyway—old wood, wonderfully worn from much use.

When I travel, some portion of my photos will always be of the beautiful doors I find. Cathedral doors so big you can’t believe they were ever built, hovel doors with little paint left, island doors that are barely there at all. Most fun is a door cracked open to offer a peek inside—a stolen look at the soul of the place, maybe even the thrill of a full view of an inner courtyard.

On occasion my girls’ doors are cracked open and I get that same sort of soul peek. I am sometimes even invited in to view the full-on mess. I’m glad they don’t clean it up for me. I’m so happy to know them as they are.

I try to leave my own life’s door at least cracked for friends and family. It’s not my natural inclination, but I rarely regret it. It’s like throwing the party you don’t want to bother with at first, always such fun when the guests arrive.

Is it the same for God? Is God tapping on my closed, cracked, or wide-open door, pleased to be let in and to listen, not minding my mess? I hope so. I hope as time goes on the door gains a patina from much use, with an inviting courtyard inside and a party underway for any who want to attend, come as you are.

Marianna Kilbride New Canaan, Connecticut

I volunteer at a shelter in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district. I make rounds with other health-care volunteers, charting symptoms and passing out over-the-counter pills.

I hand an elderly woman some multivitamin pills. One seat over, a slouching young man, hoodie shadowing most of his strong face, taps me on the shoulder and asks if he can have some vitamins, too. As I hand them to him he casually reveals that his father did terrible things to him when he was a boy. He is gay and in turmoil about it. His stories are heavy. So another volunteer, Sara, and I ask if he would like to talk in a private room.

We leave the door ajar. In the close confines of a 10 x 20 office, he talks about the unbearable and the unspeakable. His voice is solemn, and he is downcast.

He tells us he lives on the streets and showers at the gym. He wants to be normal, healthy, and happy. He wants the past to simply wash away, the way the soot is swept off the feet other volunteers are washing in the next room.

We talk with him for more than an hour. Sara talks about God a lot. Her words are fluid and beautiful, fostered by a lifetime of church. I’m a strong believer but hesitant to talk about God, especially with someone who has endured as much as this kid has. I don’t know how to describe God’s presence. My convoluted words are carried by my sideways adventures with Merton, my trucking around with Whitman, my digging around with the Qur’an and Upanishads and Tao.

The young man asks the big question: Do I believe in God? I say yes. I know many believers who were born and raised in the faith, who are practiced and relentless, well-spoken and shiny. I am none of these things. Yet he turns to me more often than I feel at ease with, asking what I think. Maybe because we are more akin than we know, both just 35 years old, both spiritually disheveled and canvassed with a lot of pain and a lot of truth.

He asks me how I could step into a church that condemns gays, and I explain that I don’t: I go to a church that is willing to sacrifice attendance and funding for its pro-gay beliefs. I also tell him that the church may be imperfect, but God is not. God is bigger than our small theologies. And this wounded young man is much grander than his experiences with his awful father.

In that moment a shift seems to occur, though to what effect or what extent I’ll never know. Sara asks if she can pray for him. Nine times out of ten, people say no—but he agrees. So she does, in her perfect God prayer. All I can offer is my honest messiness, and it seems to be enough for this child of God, and for me.

When he stands, he stands taller than before. He takes off his hoodie, and for the first time he makes eye contact with me. Walking away, he turns back and says gently, “Thank you for leaving that door open.” I guess that is all we can do.

Cairn Grace Wu San Francisco, California

There was a door on the back wall of our storage closet. We were not to play there or to tell any of our friends about it.

It was 1944 in a small village in the Netherlands. The German occupation required all young men to serve in Germany producing weapons. Those who refused were called onderduikers : they went underground.

In our case a young man hid above ground. Our house and our neighbor’s house formed a duplex, sharing a full-length wall. It happened that our closet lined up with a similar one on their side. A carpenter created a door to allow the onderduiker to pass from one closet to the other. This door was cleverly hidden, so that it seemed to be part of the wall. My mother then hung all kinds of stuff in front of the wall to hide any sign of the door, even from the family.

My older brother, however, overheard a quiet discussion between our parents and, in great secrecy, passed it on to me. He also knew we shared an onderduiker with the neighbors. We never wanted the German police to enter our home, of course. Yet a small voice in our imagination whispered, Wouldn’t it be great if those stupid Germans searched our house and never found the escape route?

Our secret spread around the neighborhood. A friend of a neighbor liked to impress people with secrets, or perhaps he was a German sympathizer. Anyway, the word got out.

One day a loud knock on the outside door came at the same time that the door was forcefully opened. Three German soldiers burst in, accompanied by a neighbor for translation (or maybe he was a traitor). They yelled, “Show us where you’re hiding that damned onderduiker !”

Mother pulled herself up to her full five feet and, quivering only slightly, protested: “Who do you think you are, barging in without permission?”

The intruders laughed and ignored her. They began opening and slamming doors, searching closets and rooms, cussing in two languages. Mother leaned unobtrusively over the sink and gave a gentle tug on the thin, strong cord that had been run to the closet as an alert system. Our guest was already ready to act, having heard the racket downstairs. He carefully did what he had practiced many times: he adjusted the wall, opened the door, went through, and closed it noiselessly. He was now in the neighbor’s house, and they had rehearsed how to transfer him immediately to a temporary hideout.

Meanwhile, the soldiers were searching the house one more time. They came again to the closet, and this time they knocked on the walls and doors—and got suspicious of the things the onderduiker , in his haste, had left behind. They drilled my mother for answers.

“Look at that closet,” she replied. “I had it all clean and neat a few weeks ago. Isn’t it terrible the way our children come up with these crazy ideas and contraptions without so much as mentioning it to their parents?” Turning to us, she yelled—something she rarely did—”And you boys just wait till your Dad comes home. And clean up that mess. That inside door also looks crooked. Straighten it up!”

Leading the unhappy soldiers out, she quietly shut the closet’s entrance door, so that it looked again like a typical closet in our neighborhood.

Harry Boonstra Grand Rapids, Michigan

It was hot the day I visited the prison. A guard in a tower watched me like the sun. Arriving wasn’t easy. I passed through multiple doors, went through security, waited to be buzzed through multiple gates. Finally I got to the lobby, where I gathered with others. We were all from the outside, and we’d come to pray with those inside as part of a prison ministry weekend event. We chatted nervously until finally a guard came to escort us to the prison gym. We lined up and passed through another door, into a holding chamber.

It was crowded. Guards up above gazed down on us through two-way mirrors. We tried not to bump into each other too much.

“Ohhhh,” said a woman in front of me, “I don’t like that door closing.” It gave a careless bang as it shut. I studied this woman. She was blonde, tall, wearing a pink-and-green paisley dress and heels.

Her friend patted her shoulder. “It’ll open again.”

I almost laughed. This blonde girl was complaining during a one-hour visit to prison? In one swift moment, she came to represent all that I resent about my own people, hypocritical Christians. Rich, spoiled, white, American, privileged—I wanted to spit these words at her. We could see through glass windows to the visiting room, where inmates and their family members stared back at us, such a huge mass of visitors all at once. How could she complain while looking directly into the eyes of women for whom that door would not open, not soon and maybe not ever? I swallowed and shook my head.

Eventually a guard led us through the next room, past the visitors at tables, down hallways with narrow windows too smudged and steamy to look through even if they had been wide enough. In the auditorium, we were told to sit on the outsiders’ side and not to interact with the residents across the aisle. Most people ignored this warning. They held out hands and grinned and laughed, recognizing inmates they knew from previous visits. I stayed silent and took my seat.

After the songs, the testimonies, the applause for each and every graduate of the program, the leader announced that among us there was a woman from the outside who’d been through the program—when she herself was in prison. The blonde woman in the pink-and-green paisley skirt stood, and the roar of the crowd was deafening.

She turned slowly to take in the sight of all those inmates in uniforms, sitting on bleachers, surrounding us. She wept, her hand over her mouth, as she looked around at all the women she’d left behind. The applause kept going and going.

Later we were again packed into the holding chamber, where guards again looked down on us. We hung there, suspended. The door behind us had closed, while the one in front of us hadn’t opened yet. Finally it did, and we went through the lobby, through the gates and through security, before finally being free. I watched that woman get in her car and drive into the hot sun.

Sarah L. Swandell Pinehurst, North Carolina

“You know that line, ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’?” my brother said. “It’s not funny anymore.” Diabetes had weakened Tim’s legs so severely that falls were a constant danger. After ambulance crews broke his door open a few times to rescue him, he decided to leave it permanently unlocked. He told a few trusted friends about his new policy. One, a muscular neighbor named Deke, checked in on him daily.

Lots of people in Tim’s apartment complex in Palm Springs looked out for one another. This was special housing for people living with HIV/AIDS. Deke and I became long-distance caregiving partners. He would call me in New York to tell me Tim was unaccounted for. I’d call the local hospital—Tim was always there—and get the information only next of kin can get. Then I’d call Deke back, and we’d make a plan.

Tim broke his hip twice. After the second successful hip surgery, he seemed like that cat with nine lives. So I was caught up short when my other brother called to tell me Tim had had a heart attack in post-op rehab. He was in a coma, and his organs were shutting down. This was it. I dropped everything and flew across the country to hold Tim’s hand while he died.

In the days between Tim’s death and his memorial service, my brother and our parents and I emptied out his small apartment. Guys from a local AIDS charity thrift shop came and took the biggest items, but we didn’t have time to pack everything else the way they needed. Mom suggested that we simply open the door, set stuff out on the porch, and see if neighbors would take it. This worked brilliantly. Bit by bit, Tim’s worldly goods quietly made their way to new locations all over the complex. For two days, we kept the door open while we worked inside emptying cabinets, shelves, and closets. Through the opening, we could see Tim’s neighbors as they respectfully contemplated and removed his things.

Occasionally someone would hesitantly stick their head through the doorway to introduce themselves and offer their condolences to us, grieving strangers. They shared stories about Tim that we never would have heard otherwise, and they thanked us for letting them take something to remember him by. As we remembered him together, it felt oddly sacramental. But there was an extra heaviness to their grief: death was how people left this little community, and Tim’s brought them closer to their own.

One visitor handed me a piece of paper with a phone number and a name: David. “He has something important he wants to tell you,” she said.

I called. David lived across town, a gay friend from an Episcopal church that Tim occasionally attended who was in the process of becoming a deacon. I told him I was also gay, also Episcopalian, and had once served on a deacon discernment committee. He told me that the night Tim fell for the last time, David was deep in prayer. Though he hadn’t seen Tim in months, my brother popped into his mind—and the thought weighed on him so heavily that he felt compelled to go directly to Tim’s apartment. Tim didn’t answer when David rang his bell, but David knew the door was unlocked.

He found Tim lying on the bathroom floor in excruciating pain. David called the ambulance. “It was a Holy Spirit thing,” he said. “He’d have been on the floor all night if I hadn’t listened and gone there and let myself in.”

Thanks to this man, Tim didn’t die alone. It was comforting to know that he had his angels and his unlocked door.

Deborah Jacoby-Twigg Lexington, Massachusetts

Ten years ago, I stood in front of the door to a suburban house in Virginia Beach. Should I have brought food? Flowers? I didn’t even have a prayer book.

I had been a priest for nine days, and it was my first day off. The rector had left the day before for a month in Scotland. The last time I saw him, on Sunday after coffee hour, I was coming out of the women’s restroom with a plunger in my hand. He laughed and said, “You’re ready! I won’t have to worry about you.”

The next day, as I stood at that front door, I was in charge of a parish of 700. The woman behind the door had just lost her husband of 59 years.

Before the phone call that led me to that door, I’d felt almost cocky. In a week as a priest I had experienced (with the rector) a wedding, a funeral, and four Sunday services. I had been the person to whom parishioners reported a clogged toilet. I thought I was ready for anything. I had not fully grasped that these 700 people were now stuck with me as their supposed spiritual leader. For a month.

When my phone rang I was on my way to change the address on my driver’s license. I was wearing a pink shirt, capris, and sandals. “There’s an ambulance taking his body away right now . It just happened! She won’t want you ,” said the frantic woman who called. “She’s a very private person.” The caller wanted to contact an older male priest who didn’t work at the church anymore.

“It’s all right. I’ve got it,” I told her, trying to turn the car around. I drove home to change into black pants and closed-toe shoes and a shirt with a clerical collar—day ten of this new attire. I didn’t try to call the rector in Scotland. I didn’t know if his plane had even landed yet. I called a local mentor instead, who told me, Go. Just go.

I did go, but I called first. “I’m Elizabeth,” I told her. “I’m the new—”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Elizabeth. I am sorry that this happened while you are new.” I winced at her apology. I asked if I could come see her. She said yes.

I prayed in front of the door before I rang the bell: Please let me take care of her. Please don’t make her take care of me.

I rang the doorbell and tried to breathe. She opened the door and invited me inside.

Elizabeth Felicetti Richmond, Virginia

From Frederick Buechner, Secrets in the Dark : “Faith waits for the opening of a door, the sound of footsteps in the hall, that beloved voice delayed, delayed so long that there are times when you all but give up hope of ever hearing it. And when at moments you think you do hear it (if only faintly, from far away) the question is: Can it possibly be, impossibly be, that one voice of all voices?”

By the time I ran out the front door, the bathroom door had long been fixed. Both events were connected to my father’s anger.

When I was about 13, my dad got upset with me for some reason I no longer recall. I locked myself in the bathroom, and when I wouldn’t unlock the door, he broke through it. I tried to shield myself by wedging my body between the toilet and the wall. I do not remember what happened after that, but I do remember my fear.

I opened the front door and ran through it when I was almost 19. I had dropped out of my first year of college and had plans to go to another school. In the meantime I had gone home, where my father was living alone, recently divorced. After two weeks back, I challenged him, bluntly, about his alcoholism. He got up in a menacing way; I stood as well and kept talking. He went and got his hunting knife, and he chased me around the house. As I headed down the long hallway to the front door, he let the knife fly. It buried itself into the door jamb as I went out. I took shelter with a neighbor, who went back with me later to collect my things—including my shoes, as I had run out in my stocking feet.

That was the last time I lived with my father.

The door, though, was not locked between us. We wrote letters occasionally while I was in college, and I visited him a couple of times. The last time I visited, he wanted to “show me off” so he took me to the only person he had left: his bartender. The door to his local bar was the last door we walked through together before he died from alcoholism.

I still have not sealed the door between us. I remember him with a mix of sadness, love, and an awareness of the wounds which remain.

Thankfully, there have been other doors and other people in my life. After the blowup with my father, a family at church learned that I was couch surfing and invited me to live with them. I did, for three summers. Forty years after I passed through their doors, we are still like family.

Thomas Dodd Eugene, Oregon

I pounded my fists on the door and yelled, “Let me out! Let me out!” Working at a maximum security psychiatric hospital, I was used to doors I couldn’t open. But this time I needed the door to open now, and I didn’t have a key.

I was in the intensive treatment unit and had just been assaulted by a patient. I was panicking and desperate, no longer in physical danger but still overwhelmed by adrenaline. I probably banged on the door for a minute or less before it opened, but it felt like an eternity. Later I learned how the officers were rushing to locate the key.

I never used to worry about the doors at the psychiatric ward, about the way they clang shut and lock behind you. Now, at my third psychiatric hospital, this one for people with criminal charges in addition to mental illness, I think more about the doors—partly because there are more of them that I cannot control, and partly because of my experience being trapped behind one. I was alone and scared, with an urgent desire to escape.

But other patients had joined the officers in coming to my aid. One leaped from a wheelchair to help subdue my attacker. Another ran over while I stood there, pounding on the door. This patient, himself assaultive at times, ran to me, turned around to face the unit, and held his arms out to the sides, a human shield. I found out later he had been an emergency medical technician; staff members wondered if this was his EMT training surfacing. He saw me in distress, and he ran to help as I waited for the door to open.

Ali Van Kuiken Trenton, New Jersey

Fifty years ago our small city was thriving and growing, and our church’s front doors welcomed 500 people each Sunday. When I arrived 28 years ago, the city was in decline and people were leaving. The congregation had a solid, faithful core, but weekly attendance had diminished to about 70. Questions about the church’s viability have persisted ever since.

At the same time something fascinating has been happening. It’s now the rear door of the church that welcomes 500 people each week—to our large pantry. Adding to this total are dozens of volunteers from assorted walks of life, mixing in with our lay leaders.

Along with being the pastor of the church, I am now chaplain to this new, different kind of congregation. Com­munion is administered in a host of ways by those who sense they are doing something tender and deep. The word of faith is expressed in countless human connections—connections warm and kind, as well as complicated and confusing at times, as lines of difference are crossed again and again. To be in this space with the eyes of faith is to be in a kind of bright light that disorients and reorients, where the hum of many voices sounds like the constant murmur of prayer.

The door on the right side of the church, unused for many decades, has been upgraded and now receives 10,000 pounds of food each week. A hearty team of volunteers, some of whom have walked through the doors of prison and recovery many times, roll heavily laden carts through this refurbished doorway.

The door on the left side, where many community groups enter the building, now also welcomes those trying to change the conditions that cause so much pain and struggle. Our countywide interfaith community organizing effort works together to find more resources for food, improve public transportation, deepen support for immigrants, and strengthen our faith communities.

Fifty years ago everybody seemed to understand what a church was, and most entered through the front doors. Today the risen Christ seems to be beckoning us to go outside, into the bright sunlight. Many of us stand in this new light trying to see more clearly what is in front of us, balancing a bit unsteadily between the old and new. The church I serve is leaning through a doorway, gradually dying to the past and, in hope, deepening its identity in Christ.

Joel F. Huntington Pittsfield, Massachusetts

It all began with the green door. It was peeling and faded and needed paint, a simple job. And then the bickering started. Should we change the color? What about a red door? The Lutherans have a red door.

The first vestry meeting lasted three hours. That conversation was fairly civil. Civility broke down between meetings, when sides were drawn, positions staked out, allies adopted. By the second meeting there was a passionate confrontation between those who wanted change and those who were upholding the “tradition”—less than ten years old—of the green door. It was clear that there was a pretty equal division in the vestry and the congregation, so the door languished for another winter, as the leadership moved on to other issues.

Then, one Sunday in the spring, the congregation arrived for worship to find a freshly painted door wide open to welcome them to God’s house. A Wet Paint sign hung from a small tack. The door gleamed with a hard, high-gloss finish as scarlet as a ripe apple.

Indeed, the sneakiness of the act seemed a little like the serpent in the garden. It definitely produced a response. There was little attention that morning to God’s word or to the bread and wine. Everyone was focused on the door that they had come through, and they could hardly wait for coffee hour to begin the critiques. (There were a few quick exchanges during the passing of the peace!)

When the coffee hour conversation finally began, a surprising thing happened. While some were outraged and sought a quick excommunication, many more thought the door looked quite good—much better than it had even when the green paint was new. The next week, everything returned to normal, the controversy ended. No one ever confessed to having done the work, although the skill and speed of the job left only a few suspects. The door has become a new tradition, now having lasted more than ten years.

Peter W. Wenner Newton, Massachusetts

Normally the sound of the bodega’s door slamming behind Lucia—its loud, decisive Adios !—would have made her jump like it did every other time she exited the shop. This time she was more startled by what she saw outside, on the stoop of the tenement next door: the foursome who weren’t there when she came in.

I know because I would have seen them as well; I had slipped into Carmela’s store right behind Lucia. The Young Bloods hadn’t been around the block when we went in the door just a few minutes before, yet there they were: Carlos, Moncho, Toni, and Carenna, the core four of her gang in Spanish Harlem.

They had already set up shop in front of the glass door of the tenement. Moncho and the girls sat on the steps, intently rolling loose joints. Carlos, ever the boss, demander of loyalty and dispatcher of discipline, stood on the top step by the door, nodding in time to the music while keeping a lookout for cops and likely customers. (When I left the store right after Lucia, I was careful not to let the door make such a racket—so they were not aware of my ringside position near a parked car, an eight-year-old bystander taking it all in.)

Carlos spotted Lucia almost as quickly as she had seen them. Maybe he had heard the slamming door. “Hey, c’mon over here,” he said. “Gonna ask you something.”

Lucia slowly walked over to stand on the sidewalk in front of them. She stared up at Carlos. Moncho looked her up and down, smirked at her cheap sneakers. Toni and Carenna barely acknowledged her arrival, acting like licking rolling paper was the most important task ever. Carlos locked eyes with Lucia. “Where were you last night? We were supposed to hang out, get high and shit. None of us could find you. I sent Moncho up five flights. Your moms said you was out.”

The summer of 1968 was a hot one; Lucia shivered anyway. I watched as she casually swung her right hand behind her to pat the pocket of her jeans, probably feeling for her switchblade. The pocket was empty. But this showdown was going to have to happen, so it might as well be right now, here next to Big Carmela’s, in the daylight on her block, the only street where she felt safe, because she knew everyone and they knew her.

My heart was pounding. I knew exactly where she had been when Carlos ordered Moncho to fetch her: with her preacher, my dad. Here came the truth, slow at first, then all in a rush.

“I was at the church,” she said, “the one with Hope written all over the wall by the front door. The church had a community meeting, ’bout how we’re going to rehab a tenement. See, we’re going to renovate a building, move low-income families, like my mom, back in. Fix up the block, too, one tenement at a time. I feel like the church is offering us a threshold, to make a difference.”

She was getting to it, like she could hear herself speak, talking with a voice that sounded new.

“So I can’t be in the Young Bloods anymore, Carlos. Carlos, I’m outta here. Adios .”

James L. Brewer-Calvert Atlanta, Georgia

People don’t linger long between the doors in a hospital foyer, on the way in or out. But one late night I did. I had forgotten to go out before dark and move my car closer to the door as I usually did, so I was waiting for a security guard to escort me. The way into the hospital glowed dimly with light from the lobby. The way out was dark. I’d walked through that space night after night but had never stopped to notice the imposing presence that caught my eye that night.

It was Jesus, sculpted life-sized in cold alabaster but glowing warmly from the lobby lights. I noticed first the robes draped gracefully around his body, then the hair falling to his shoulders, then the slight smile. I shuffled a little closer to see the hands, open. The scars were there, on each palm and on the sandaled feet as well.

Those weeks were hard. In April my father was diagnosed with advanced multiple myeloma. Several rounds of chemotherapy followed: one week of continuous infusion in the hospital, then two weeks at home, then back again for more chemo. My mother and I split the hospital duty. She sat with him during the day, and I relieved her at suppertime, staying until he fell asleep or sometimes till the midnight shift change. It was a brutal cancer and a brutal treatment, and the hospital doors became my daily entry into and escape from my sadness and helpless anger.

In June my father died, by his own hand. That day my mother left an eerie message on my office phone: “Daddy has hurt himself. You need to come.” When I pulled into the hospital driveway, a police officer blocked my way to the door. As gently as he could, he said, “You can’t go in right now, ma’am. I’m sorry to tell you your father is deceased.” He put his arm out to steady me. Then he walked me across the street to a neighbor’s home, where my mother sat in stunned silence. We waited there for the police and paramedics to finish their work. And through that door we received my pastor, who fell on his knees before me and took my hand. In his hands I saw the hands of Jesus in that hospital foyer, open and reaching to me.

Jennifer Ginn Matthews, North Carolina

When I turned around, two people were standing in my house, smiling at me. I had left the front door open to let in fresh air and light as I unpacked and got my bearings in this wooden hut, my home for the next two years of Peace Corps service. I soon learned that in this village, an open door is a way of declaring, “Come on in. What’s mine is yours.”

Most of the doors in my new neighborhood stood open from early morning until sunset. When, with my neighbors’ urging, I walked through their open doors, they always seemed glad to see me. Often I was offered food. Always there was conversation. This feels right, I thought. I can live like this. Most of the time I found the practice gratifying and freeing.

Sometimes, however, it was annoying. I had been raised in a culture with a different notion of privacy, and I made a more definite distinction between what’s mine and what’s yours.

Thursday mornings I visited the village baker and brought home a loaf of fresh bread to have with my coffee. Before I could set the bread down and start the coffee, neighbors would arrive. I tried to be as hospitable as they had been to me. But I couldn’t help but be disappointed when Thursday after Thursday, both coffee and bread were consumed before I even got a taste.

Enough of this! One Thursday I left my house by the back door, leaving the front door closed. When I returned with the bread, I entered through the back. The solitude was blissful. I took the time to eat a piece of the bread and pour myself a cup of coffee. No neighbors invaded my privacy. Behind my closed door, I reflected on my cleverness.

But my pleasure didn’t last long. The bread was becoming tasteless. In closing my door to my neighbors, had I violated something deeper than just a cultural oddity? Does sharing all that one has please God? Could there be a scene in Dante’s Inferno where someone holds all the bread and has to eat it alone?

I couldn’t remember. But I knew it was time to open the door.

Bill Heck Swannanoa, North Carolina

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