The Keeper's Door

Opening: When Standing Still Is Also a Choice

So there's a door.

Not the one to your bathroom at 3am when your bladder's screaming. Though honestly, some mornings even that feels like a mythological quest.

I'm talking about the other kind. The one that showed up in your life uninvited. The threshold you didn't ask for but here it is anyway, demanding you make a decision.

Open it? Keep it closed? Pretend you don't see it while it sits there taking up all the oxygen in the room?

And everyone's got opinions. "Follow your heart!" "Protect your energy!" "Leap before you're ready!" "Wait for the right time!"

Cool. Super helpful. Except you're the one standing there at 2am staring at this thing, and everyone else gets to go back to their lives while you figure out if opening it will save you or ruin you.

The ancient yogis? They knew about this too.

The Guardians at Every Gate

In Hindu temples, before you even get to the sacred space, you meet the dvarapalas (dvah-rah-PAH-lahs). The door guardians. These fierce figures carved in stone, standing watch, asking a question with their eyes:

Are you ready for what's on the other side?

Not "are you worthy"—that's not the question. Just: are you actually ready? Do you know what you're walking into? Are you conscious right now or sleepwalking through your own life?

Ganesha guards thresholds too. Elephant-headed, sweet-eating, obstacle-removing Ganesha. But here's the thing people miss—he doesn't remove every obstacle. Sometimes the obstacle IS the protection. Sometimes what you think is blocking your way is actually saving you from something you're not equipped to handle yet.

Durga stands at doorways, lion-mounted and many-armed, deciding what threatens what she loves. She doesn't just protect—she discerns. There's a difference.

Hanuman guards Rama's door with such devotion he won't let ANYONE through without checking first. Even gods. Even when it seems absurd. Because devotion means knowing what you're devoted to.

Every threshold has a keeper.

Every door asks a question.

Today you're going to meet yours.

Before We Begin

Get comfortable. I'm not going to tell you how—you know your body better than I do. Sit, lie down, lean against something, stand if that's what works. Just be somewhere you can stay for a bit without your body staging a revolt.

If you're near an actual door, even better. Kitchen door, bedroom door, doesn't matter. Sometimes having a real threshold nearby helps the symbolic one land deeper.

Breathe. Not the shallow panic-breath you've been using to survive Tuesday. An actual breath that reaches your belly.

Here's the only question before we start: What door in your life right now is asking you to choose?

You don't need the answer yet. Just acknowledge the question exists.

When you're ready, close your eyes or soften your gaze. Let the images come.

Finding Your Door

You're walking a path.

It's not unfamiliar—more like someplace from a dream you half-remember. The light's that in-between quality. Not dawn, not dusk. That liminal time when you can't tell if things are arriving or leaving.

The terrain shifts as you walk. Forest. Corridor. Desert. Shoreline. Your unconscious picks the scenery, and whatever it chooses is right.

And then you see it.

Your door.

Standing there. Freestanding. Not attached to walls or a building—just a door in a frame, existing because it needs to exist right now.

Maybe it's ornate. Maybe it's plain. Wood, stone, metal, light, something you don't have words for. However it appears is exactly what you need to see.

And standing before it—between you and whatever's on the other side—

Your keeper.

Meeting the Guardian

The keeper might be someone you recognize. Ganesha with his knowing eyes and slight smile. Durga with her lion and that gaze that sees everything you're trying to hide. Hanuman standing watch with the kind of devotion that makes you want to cry or run or both.

Or maybe it's not a traditional deity at all. Maybe it's an ancestor. An animal. A version of yourself from another time. A presence you can't quite see but absolutely feel.

They're not welcoming you. Not rejecting you either.

Just... witnessing.

And in that witnessing, you realize: you've been here before. Not this exact door, but this moment. This standing at the edge of something, not knowing whether to move forward or back.

The keeper gestures. Not with invitation or dismissal. Just acknowledgment.

Yes. You're here. Now what?

The Questions at the Threshold

You move closer. Close enough to see the details. The grain of wood or the texture of stone or the way light moves across its surface.

Close enough to hear what's on the other side.

And you do hear something. Or sense it. Or just know it's there.

There's something beyond this door. Something waiting. Maybe something trying to get in. Maybe something you're trying to reach.

An opportunity. A relationship. A version of yourself you're terrified to become. A truth you've been avoiding. A grief you've been running from. A dream that feels too big to claim.

Or maybe it's something you've been keeping out. A memory. A rage. A love so fierce it scares you.

The keeper speaks.

"Why are you here?"

And you realize—you're not sure if you're trying to open this door or keep it sealed. If you're the one seeking entry or the one standing guard.

"What are you protecting?"

Let the real answer come. Not the one that makes you sound evolved. The true one.

The keeper waits. They've got all the time in the world. They've been standing at this threshold longer than you've been alive. They're not in a hurry.

"What are you afraid will happen if this door opens?"

You feel it. In your chest, your belly, your throat. The fear has a texture. Let yourself know it.

"What are you afraid will happen if it stays closed?"

The Three Keys

The keeper reaches into the air—or pulls from their robes, or maybe the keys were always there—and holds up three keys.

"Every door has three ways of opening and three ways of staying closed. You need to know which one you're using."

The first key glows warm and steady.

"This is readiness. This opens the door when it's time. When you've done the work. When you're actually prepared for what's beyond. This key doesn't force anything. It waits for alignment."

The second key is darker, heavier.

"This is fear. This keeps the door closed—not because it should be, but because you're scared. This key feels like safety. But it's actually a cage."

The third key shimmers, hard to look at directly.

"This is force. This opens the door before you're ready. Because you're desperate or impatient or trying to prove something. This key works—it'll open the door. But what comes through might destroy you before you're equipped to handle it."

The keeper's eyes hold yours.

"Which key are you holding? Which one have you been using?"

Let yourself know the answer. Even if—especially if—you don't like it.

What the Door Actually Protects

"Come here," the keeper says.

They lead you around the door. To the other side.

And there, carved or etched or somehow embedded in the wood or stone, you see it:

What this door is actually protecting.

Your heart. Your creativity. Your children. Your peace. Your becoming. Your grief. Your joy. The part of you that almost didn't survive childhood. The tender place. The fierce place. The sacred place you've been guarding so hard you forgot why.

"Every boundary protects something," the keeper says quietly. "Every door serves something. The question is whether you know what that something is. Whether you're guarding it consciously or just keeping everything out because discernment is harder than blanket refusal."

Look at what's written there. What you've been protecting all this time.

"Does this still need protecting? Or has the door itself become the prison?"

What You Actually Want

The keeper steps back.

"I can't tell you whether to open this door. That's not my job. I'm the keeper, not the decider. I stand watch. I hold the question. I make sure you're awake for what you choose."

They gesture to the door.

"But here's what I know: This door will open eventually. Or it won't. Either way, standing here frozen isn't neutral. Indecision is still a choice—it's choosing to let fear decide for you while pretending you haven't decided."

You feel that land in your body.

"So tell me—what do you actually want? Not what you should want. Not what would make you look brave or healed or spiritually advanced. What does your actual soul want?"

You know. You've always known.

Say it. Out loud if you can. Silently if you can't. But name it.

The keeper hears you even if you don't speak.

"Then the question becomes: Are you ready to want that? To own that desire? To stop apologizing for it?"

The Keeper's Gift

The keeper does something unexpected.

They step aside.

"The door is yours. It always has been. I don't control it. I just remind you it's here. That you have a choice. That choosing consciously is different than drifting."

They place something in your hand. A key. A stone. A seed. A flame. Whatever it is, you know it belongs to you.

"Come back here whenever you need to. This door doesn't disappear just because you walk away today. You'll stand at thresholds again and again—different doors, different questions, same practice."

"And I'll be here. Always. Holding the question. Witnessing your choice."

Choosing

Now the moment comes.

Do you open the door?

Do you keep it closed?

Do you sit down right here and decide to stay with the question longer?

There's no wrong answer. The keeper isn't grading you. This isn't a test.

But you do have to choose something. Even if that something is "not yet."

So choose.

Maybe you reach for the handle.

Maybe you step back.

Maybe you sit down and just... breathe with it.

Whatever you choose, you choose it consciously. With the keeper as witness. With full knowledge of what you're protecting, what you're afraid of, and what you actually want.

That consciousness—that's the practice.

Not getting it right.

Not making the perfect choice.

Just choosing with your eyes open.

The Return

The keeper bows to you.

Not subservience. Respect. Keeper to keeper.

Because that's what you are now. Not just the one approaching the door. Also the one who guards it. The one who decides. The one responsible for your own thresholds.

"Remember," the keeper says, "Ganesha doesn't remove every obstacle. Durga doesn't destroy every threat. Hanuman doesn't let everyone through just because they asked nicely. Krishna doesn't stop playing his flute just because someone's uncomfortable with the music."

"The work of the threshold is discernment. Knowing what serves and what doesn't. What's ready and what isn't. What protects and what imprisons."

"The door will be here when you need it."

You're walking back down the path now. Same path, different person. You're carrying something you didn't have before.

The knowledge that you're the keeper of your own doors.

Take a breath.

Feel your body.

Notice what's beneath you.

Flex your fingers.

Move your toes.

Come back.

You're here.

The keeper is still with you, even if invisible now.

The door is still there, even if you can't see it.

And you get to choose—every single day—what you let through.

Integration Questions

Write whatever comes. There's no right way to do this.

About Your Door:

What did it look like? Sometimes details matter more than we think.

Who was your keeper? Known deity or unexpected presence?

Real talk: Are you trying to open this door or keep it closed? And have you been honest with yourself about which one?

About Protection:

When you saw what the door was protecting—what was it?

Is that thing still precious enough to guard? Or are you protecting something that doesn't need protection anymore while the real vulnerable parts go undefended?

Where's the line between boundary and cage in your actual life right now?

About Keys:

Which key have you been using? Readiness, fear, or force?

If it's fear—what's the fear protecting you from? Get underneath the surface answer.

If it's force—what are you trying to prove? And to whom?

About Choice:

When the keeper asked what you actually want—what did you say? Was it true or was it the answer that makes you look good?

What would change if you owned that desire completely?

Where in your life is indecision actually just fear wearing a clever disguise?

About Practice:

You'll stand at this threshold again. Does that feel comforting or exhausting?

What does it mean to be the keeper of your own doors—not just the one approaching them?

What gift did you carry back?

The Real Question:

If your keeper showed up at your kitchen table tomorrow morning, what would they say about the door you're currently standing at in your actual life?

The dvarapalas at Hindu temples aren't there to keep you out. They're there to make sure you're conscious when you enter. To witness your choice to cross the threshold.

That's threshold work. Not deciding perfectly. Not getting it right. Just choosing consciously instead of drifting through your life half-asleep.

Ganesha knows which obstacles are protection and which are prison.

Durga knows when to open the door and when to guard it with her life.

Hanuman knows devotion sometimes means saying no.

Krishna knows the flute song calls some souls forward and lets others stay exactly where they are.

And now, so do you.

May you guard what's sacred.

May you open what's ready.

May you stand at your thresholds fully awake.

🕉️