We build doors, but what do they reveal about what we choose to show, protect, or conceal?

A door is more than an opening in a wall. Its decoration often expresses what we value. Its lock marks a boundary, and its position-open, closed, or somewhere between signals our willingness to let people in. It signifies possibilities for the curious.

Living well lies in knowing what to welcome, what to protect, and when to do each.

I. A Door Worth Stopping For

While travelling through Uzbekistan, expecting mosques, madrasahs, minarets, and markets, I unexpectedly found something much more ordinary that repeatedly caught my attention: doors.

We often take doors for granted, for they are among the most common and functional objects imaginable. They exist simply because we need an opening in a wall. Yet some people decided that merely functioning wasn’t quite enough. Yes, utility explains why something exists, but beauty tells us something about the people who made them.

These people spent hours, perhaps days, caring for them, on something others would pass through in seconds. How often do we pass through a door without noticing it, carved or otherwise?

An intriguing door sits in the Islam Khoja Madrasah museum. The madrasah is no longer a school; it has been repurposed as a small museum with engaging exhibits, such as the intricately carved door on display. Hardly any explanations accompanied the door, which stood silently as visitors streamed through the adjacent passageway without stopping to look.

But I stopped to marvel.

Why make something beautiful when it only needs to work? Interestingly, at Konigil, people made paper from mulberry bark, yet they still made beautiful objects from it.

There is something in humans that wants things to be beautiful, to be made and to be seen, appreciated or not.

II. When Function Becomes Craft

The door could have been plain. Instead, generations of artisans turned an entrance into a statement.

Why?

A door is unquestionably useful. The Uzbek artisan refuses to stop there because it can be made beautiful with further care. These doors remind me of what William Morris wrote in The Beauty of Life (1880): “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

So, why do human beings expend effort to make necessary things aesthetically appealing? Do utility and beauty really belong to separate categories? I suspect beauty itself has a function: it communicates care, identity and respect for the everyday. Uzbeks communicate their care and identity through traditional patterns influenced by their beliefs. By contrast, Chinese motifs differ, signifying a distinct cultural heritage.

Or perhaps because people do not live by utility alone, the objects surrounding us silently reveal what a culture considers worth the extra effort. The Japanese have a special term for the beauty of use, “Yo-no-bi” (用の美), which refers to the coexistence of utility and artistry. Crafted objects can and do embody functional beauty.

There is therefore a difference between asking: “Does it work?” and “Is this worth doing artistically well?” Hence, craftsmanship is value added beyond necessity.

III. A Magnificent Door and a Simple Latch

The design and implementation of locks, bolts, chains, or wooden latches are imaginative displays. With few exceptions, what I have seen in Uzbekistan appears to be rather flimsy mechanisms, and elaborate doors secured by them are surprisingly ordinary hardware.

The carving on the doors in the old quarters of Bukhara and Samarkand seemed capable of surviving centuries, as some have already done. On the other hand, the locks looked as though a determined visitor might defeat them within seconds.

Perhaps Uzbeks expect other people to respect the boundary?

Boundaries remind me of Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall.” In his poem, he wrote, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”, and his neighbour’s response, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

Frost’s natural impulse is to tear down barriers, seen and unseen. At the same time, the neighbour is more comfortable maintaining tradition and inherited boundaries without troubling himself to ask why they are necessary.

But what makes the boundary effective? Wood? Metal? Lock? Or mutual acceptance that a boundary exists?

The latch cannot tell me how trusting Uzbek society is. But it can make me wonder how much of everyday security has always depended upon something locks alone cannot provide: other people’s willingness to respect a boundary.

Only in recent years has security become important in Singapore hospitals. When I became head of department, anyone could walk into my office from the street without any security barriers. Now, like many places elsewhere, we need access cards and monitors in every nook and corner to control and monitor movement.

The willingness to respect boundaries is deteriorating. Just look at the violation of national boundaries and sovereignty in the name of national security.

IV. Neither Open nor Closed

A fully open door is easy to interpret, and so is a closed one. The partly opened door is much more interesting and invites imagination. What would Emily Dickinson say if she saw the partially opened doors I saw? In her poem, “I dwell in Possibility — A fairer House than Prose -,” a partly opened door would represent possibilities.

A closed door gives certainty: No.

A completely open door gives another kind of certainty: Enter.

The partly open door preserves possibility, since we cannot see enough to know what lies beyond. That uncertainty makes us curious and want to enquire and explore. Much of the pleasure of travel comes from temporarily allowing ourselves to live, in Dickinson’s phrase, “in Possibility.” How wonderful!

In her poem, “Possibility” represents the boundless world of imagination, creativity, and poetry. We live much of our lives like partially opened doors. We reveal some things and conceal others, welcoming people into certain parts while maintaining boundaries around others.

Friendship does not require total disclosure, nor does hospitality mean surrendering privacy. People often demand transparency, but that does not mean having no boundaries. Hence, leadership does not require sharing everything.

Openness and boundaries are not opposites.

A door, with and without locks, can allow both.

V. The Doors We Carry Within Us

I had encountered doors before, in Italy, and they had led me to think about thresholds-the moments when we stand between where we are and where we might go.

Perhaps we carry invisible doors within us too, doors we open to people, ideas and experiences. Sometimes I open them eagerly, such as when I pursue a second or third degree in domains related to my medical practice. Sometimes cautiously in musical studies. Travel itself depends on that willingness.

If I had kept every inner door closed, Uzbekistan would have remained a collection of monuments and photographs. Instead, willing conversations with strangers, encounters with artisans, music and ordinary scenes entered through doors of opportunity created by curiosity. To be open is to allow the unfamiliar a chance to change what we already think we know in a journey of lifelong study.

Psychologists say openness is one of the five major personality traits. Openness makes people curious, more likely to embrace challenges, more likely to view mistakes as opportunities to learn, and more likely to adapt more readily to new environments.

Science explains why curiosity feels rewarding. Whenever we learn, our brains release dopamine-a natural chemical associated with motivation, pleasure, and reward. This makes intellectual discovery a highly fulfilling experience — the joy of learning. Living things must have survival skills.

But we need doors to things worth protecting: our time, attention, relationships, principles and private selves. A house without doors offers us no privacy, and a life without boundaries may offer little peace. What we choose to guard, therefore, reflects our values.

We lock our houses to protect our possessions, but many of the things that matter most cannot be protected this way. We guard our time because it is a precious, limited resource; our attention because we are easily distracted; our relationships because they are often overlooked; and our reputation because it is so fragile. Their protection depends on the boundaries we establish, the choices we make and the care with which we live.

Perhaps, then, maturity is about balance. Curiosity asks us to open the door; judgement sometimes asks us to close it. Trust may allow us to leave it ajar. The difficult part, therefore, is discernment. The question is no longer whether we are “open-minded.” It becomes: Open to what?

The doors we carry within us have no visible hinges or locks, yet learning when to open and close them is wisdom.

VI. The Final Reflection

The carved doors of Uzbekistan leave me with something rather different from what first attracted my camera.

I stopped because they were beautiful. I looked closer and noticed the locks. I walked towards some and found others partly open. And gradually the ordinary door became a question about how we live.

I would bring the answer down to three verbs: Welcome. Protect. Discern. We need enough openness to allow the world in. Enough boundaries to protect what matters. And enough wisdom to know the difference.

When I walked through the city gate into ancient Khiva, I noticed the security camera atop the huge, ornate wooden door. Like a city gate, we should open and close at appropriate times, while also monitoring movement when open and when closed.

This essay is part of an ongoing series of reflections on travel and the inner life from the Silk Road in Uzbekistan.

Retired professor of radiology writing on seeing, curiosity, and the inner life. Lifelong student of attention and meaning.

Originally published at https://agewelleveryday.org on October 23, 2026.

What We Choose to Guard was originally published in Engage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Last Day. Best Day.

“It is so important that we stay in the day. We aren’t living tomorrow…”

These were Bec’s morning words as she gathered us into a circle. Her guidance was gentle, but her warning was stern. Don’t let thoughts of the outside world steal away the time we had left on the river.

It was Day 13, our last full day, and we’d already started talking about going home.

What food would we eat first? How good would that hot shower feel? What had happened in the world while we were gone?

“We have lots of rapids and miles to cover. Take it all in and don’t ruin our last full day on the river.”

Then our stoic river guide flashed her signature grin and rallied the troops.

“Last day. Best day!”

Then Bec sent us off for a three-minute meditation. We scattered across camp to reflect on the past thirteen days and what we wanted to take with us.

My thoughts settled on simplicity.

Life on the river had been remarkably uncomplicated. We had what we needed, and little else. Our days revolved around the river, the people around us, and whatever adventure awaited. I hadn’t missed the noise of the outside world nearly as much as I’d expected.

I wondered how much of that simplicity I could take home. Not just fewer things or commitments, but being more intentional about the people and experiences that filled my days. What did I want to let go of? What deserved more of my time and attention?

Less is more.

I didn’t want to return to business as usual. Instead, I wanted to bring a little more of the river home with me.

Pack em Up

With our thoughts back in the moment, we returned to our familiar camp pack-up routine.

Packing my dry bags had become muscle memory. I knew exactly what went where and in what order, with my toothbrush and sunscreen always packed last. I was reminded of George Clooney in Up in the Air, meticulously packing his carry-on with practiced efficiency. He was an air warrior. I had become a river warrior.

The guides rarely needed to give instructions anymore. We knew what went onto the rafts first (heavy kitchen equipment) and what went last (the groovers). Fire lines formed as we passed dry bags from camper to camper, loading each boat with its carefully counted supplies. What had once seemed like a complicated production now ran like a well-oiled machine.

Our diminishing supplies reflected the passing days. The burlap bags that once bulged with beverages were nearly empty, their contents long since consumed and eventually expelled into the Colorado River, our urine dispensing system.

Bec’s food management was equally impressive. We’d enjoyed restaurant-quality meals without shortages or spoilage, and even had ice left for our nightly drinks.

Thirteen days in, we’d become a pretty efficient little river community.

Rafting Community

With our boats loaded and camp cleared, we eagerly launched. Garrett and I joined Ben on his raft, picking up on conversation like old river friends.

Water-gun fights broke out between boats, our laughter occasionally drowned out by the roar of approaching rapids. The camaraderie extended beyond our fleet boats to other rafting outfits making their way down the Colorado.

A large motorboat pulled alongside us, its guide recognizing Ben. After exchanging greetings, he tossed over a bag of ice. Different rafting companies, but part of one river community.

Ben explained that guides often shared supplies. Guides launching later sometimes delivered supplies to crews already on the river. Earlier in our trip, a passing motorboat had delivered new sandals to one of our assistants, whose worn-out footwear had prompted a request. The delivery brought a squeal of joy.

As the motorboat pulled away, I marveled at its size. It could have carried our entire group, now spread across seven boats. With only two guides aboard, I wondered how different their experience was from ours.

I couldn’t imagine trading our nine guides, their teamwork, and the fun they’d brought to every day of our adventure.

River Natives

Between rapids, our 25-mile journey offered plenty of quiet stretches for naps, nature watching, and conversation.

Midday, a bald eagle entertained us as he soared overhead, scanning the river for prey. We watched in fascination as he made quick, calculated swoops toward the water, seemingly oblivious to his audience of rafters below.

Later, at our final campsite, another river native provided entertainment. A playful beaver swam in and out of a nearby rapid, twisting and turning through the current much as we had a week earlier at the Little Colorado River confluence, wearing our PFDs like oversized diapers.

From our wobbly three-legged happy hour stools, we watched his antics. The more we laughed, the more he seemed to perform. We were strangers in his territory, but he had no interest in our perch on the sand bar. He was perfectly at home in the rapids.

Elephant in the Room

Dave, our fearless camp host, announced a white elephant gift exchange for our final evening together. The rules were simple. We chose something from our river belongings to give away, wrapping it in a sarong or bandana we intended to keep.

We’d draw numbers, take turns opening or stealing gifts, and retire each item after three steals.

Back at camp, I surveyed my belongings. My options were limited. Most of my clothes stank. I was beginning to wonder whether a faint smell of urine was real or lodged in my imagination.

I settled on my orange Telluride Brewery trucker hat, while Garrett offered his solar charger. Would either be a coveted steal? We hadn’t a clue.

That evening, we gathered in a circle, tossing our wrapped gifts into the center. Then we waited for the guides. Their usual evening huddle was taking forever.

Finally, they joined us, added their gift to the pile, and the numbers were drawn.

The Shirt Off My Back

Although my trucker hat wasn’t a coveted item, Garrett’s solar charger was. Other popular steals included a water gun, our well-traveled kayak floatie toy, and clothing that had become familiar sights throughout the trip.

Bill snagged his friend Allen’s happy hour shirt. Most evenings, Allen changed into his signature western button-up, complete with long sleeves, snaps, and embellished shoulders. Southwest fancy. By now, the shirt was as recognizable as Allen himself.

The group roared as Bill unveiled his treasure. Feeding into the frenzy, he performed a striptease-style dance while changing into his new shirt, with moves rivaling those of our playful beaver from earlier that afternoon.

Ultimately, Bec claimed Allen’s shirt on its final steal. I’m still hoping to see it make an appearance on AzRA’s social media, enjoying a second life on the river.

We soon discovered why the guides had taken so long to join us. They’d used a black permanent marker to sign an old blue AzRA T-shirt, adding personal messages for whoever took it home.

“You shit, I shit, we ALL SHIT. :) Sanne”

“Rubber Boat Love — Ben”

“Keep dancing with the waves!! Dennis”

The signed shirt became a sought-after treasure, landing with Shantel after its final steal. Other shirts made the rounds, including Steph’s ‘Hump Smarter’ model and a Metallica T-shirt Bill proudly wore the next day.

From Strangers to Friends

The stealing was half the entertainment. Deals were negotiated, strategies hatched, and good-natured bantering filled the circle.

My orange trucker hat never inspired much competition, but Shantel’s forest-green hat did. Bearing the words “Save Water, Drink Tequila,” it eventually landed with Andrew. Barely old enough to have graduated from water to tequila, he wore it well.

Watching Andrew and Shantel tease each other, I thought back to their water gun battles earlier that day. They’d arrived as strangers, Andrew with our Indonesia-connected group and Shantel with the larger New Mexico crew. Thirteen days later, they were carrying on like lifelong friends.

Over the course of our journey, the lines between our original groups had disappeared. Age, zip code, and the people we’d arrived with no longer mattered. We’d become one big, wonderfully mismatched river family.

Owen wouldn’t let the moment pass without a group photo. He set his camera timer and scrambled into position just in time. Wearing newly acquired shirts and hats while holding toys and treasures high, we grinned for our final photo together.

Skinny Dipping

With the sun setting and dishes cleaned, I thought our last evening was coming to an end. But Shantel had other ideas.

“We’re all going skinny-dipping tonight.”

Shantel insisted we needed to say goodbye to the river properly. And we’d wait until dusk to avoid unnecessary exposure.

Was I in?

Sure.

I needed one last dip in the Colorado to escape the heat anyway. What difference did it make if a few friends joined me, minus our clothes? I’d simply slip off my sarong for a nanosecond and disappear underwater.

True to my word, I found Shantel and her recruits at dusk. We waded into the cool water, still covered in our sarongs. Then, with shrieks of exhilaration, we shed our coverings and began splashing around, holding our clothes above the water.

And then there was Ireke, diving naked into the river with his bright white backside practically glowing in the moonlight.

Not one to waste an opportunity, I’d also brought along soap in my free hand, hoping to rid myself of that lingering odor I could no longer convince myself was imaginary.

I hadn’t skinny-dipped since I was a teenager. And while my adult self couldn’t resist multitasking with a little personal hygiene, I enjoyed that same childish delight of doing something completely uninhibited.

I made a mental note to give Shantel a big hug once we were all dressed again.

One Last Night Under the Stars

Attempting to empty the burlap sacks of booze was common on the last night of a river trip. On past nights, we carefully followed our no-more-than-three-can apportionment. But this last night… it was a group effort to empty the bags.

Bill and Celia had extra wine, and I happily accepted a pour into my insulated mug. I added seltzer water to dilute it, but lost track of how many times I said yes to a top-off.

What had turned out to be our last day, best day, did not translate into my best night of sleep.

I woke in the middle of the night, wide awake. Although I knew better than to drink wine before bed, a lesson my menopausal body had long taught me, I had ignored rational thinking.

With sleep nowhere in sight, I turned my attention to the brilliant sky overhead. Thousands of stars filled the darkness, accompanied by the familiar sounds of the Colorado River rushing through nearby rapids.

I searched the clusters of stars, trying to identify a constellation, when a shooting star suddenly streaked across the edge of my vision.

For a moment, I just stared in awe.

Watching alone beneath that enormous sky, I couldn’t help but see it as a sign. The Grand Canyon was bidding me goodbye.

Eventually, I began drifting back to sleep, unaware of the time.

Now could I start thinking about tomorrow, Bec?

The Grand Canyon River Expedition — Day 13 was originally published in Engage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As my film plays, I hear the audience laughing. I’m pleasantly surprised by the occasional giggles coming from the crowd. I never intended to make a comedy, but there’s always something of an ego boost in knowing that I’ve managed to make someone laugh. Toward the end, however, the room falls into complete silence as the darker conflict of the story unfolds. Soon, the bright stage lights are shining in my eyes as I take part in the post-screening Q&A.

“What is the hardest part of the process for you guys when it comes to making a film?” the moderator asks.

“Funding. It forced me to crash events and pitch my film to complete strangers in the hopes that they’d give me money,” I reply.

The audience bursts into laughter. I smile to myself, thinking back on the grueling process of fundraising and everything it took to get this film made.

After the screening, I receive a text from an actor friend who is surprised that I managed to stay lucid throughout the evening. Honestly, I am just as surprised. How the hell did I manage to stay awake?

I lie in bed, reading the message before setting my phone aside. I stare into the darkness for a moment before drifting off into another night of dreams.

A little background about me.

My name is Stephanie Cherng. I’m a director, writer, and editor born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Some people also know me as a comedian, having performed at various open mics and comedy shows throughout the city.

I come from a low-income, working-class family and grew up in a basement apartment. I didn’t have a room of my own until I was twenty-four. My father’s side of the family are refugees from the Cambodian genocide, while my mother immigrated to the United States from Malaysia on her own in search of better work opportunities so she could support her family.

Now, at twenty-nine, I find myself reflecting on my life as an artist and the journey I’ve taken to pursue what was once my teenage dream: making films. It hasn’t been easy, and it still isn’t.

There have been moments when I’ve compared myself to colleagues who have the financial support of their parents or come from families with connections in the entertainment industry. I’ve had to actively unlearn those patterns of thinking. Comparison has a way of taking up the very energy and time I could be using to create something of my own. I’ve come to realize that I can’t spend my life measuring my progress against someone else’s circumstances. I have my own path to build.

I started making films in high school when I joined a nonprofit filmmaking program. At the time, I had absolutely no aspirations of becoming a filmmaker. I actually wanted to go into politics. But as part of completing the program, I was required to make a film. So, somewhat begrudgingly, I made one just to fulfill the requirement.

Looking back, I’m incredibly grateful to the people in that program who pushed me to finish my film. The program taught me a lesson that has stayed with me ever since and it’s to finish what you start.

Since then, I’ve gone on to make narrative shorts and documentaries, many of which I haven’t shared publicly. For a long time, I was afraid of being seen. I was afraid of putting my work out into the world and allowing people to have opinions about something so personal to me.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-five, while working in production at Showtime Networks, that I decided to take a leap of faith and pursue my artistry more seriously. I had always assumed that the key to success was climbing the corporate ladder. But then I watched executives and managers who had spent more than twenty years at the company get laid off over a Zoom call following a merger. It was a sobering reminder that even the most established careers aren’t guaranteed. I realized that if I was going to take a risk, I might as well bet on myself.

Betting on myself didn’t mean things suddenly became easier. If anything, it introduced an entirely different set of challenges. But looking back, I can see how those experiences shaped me into a more resourceful creative and, eventually, a better creative entrepreneur.

I started performing at open mics to test out jokes and eventually had opportunities to travel to different states to perform comedy. A friend even encouraged me to finally make the film I’d been talking about for years. While juggling filmmaking and comedy, I held down various jobs to make ends meet. I was still living with my mom in a basement apartment, trying to figure out how to build a creative career while navigating an environment that was becoming increasingly difficult to live in.

My mental health began to deteriorate. My room had mold and roach infestations, and eventually, my mental health started affecting my performance at work. I was fired from my editing job. It was a difficult period that forced me to confront the reality that something had to change. If I wanted to build a sustainable, long-lasting career, I couldn’t keep living the way I was.

I knew I had to make some drastic changes, not only to my environment but also to the way I approached my life and my ambitions.

Fast-forward to today: I live in a much better environment, I’ve completed another short film, and I’m developing a new project with an incredible cast that I hope to eventually turn into a feature. I’m continuing to find ways to tell stories, create opportunities for myself, and build a career on my own terms.

I often receive messages from people telling me they wish they were in my position or that they hope to one day have a career in storytelling. Others ask me how I’m able to make my own films independently. The truth is, I don’t always know what to tell them. I’m still figuring it out myself. I’m still chasing the answers, just like everyone else.

What works for me may not work for someone else, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned along the way, it’s the importance of shifting your mindset and establishing a routine. You have to learn how to work with what you have, rather than constantly focusing on what you don’t. You have to keep creating, even when the circumstances aren’t ideal. And perhaps most importantly, you have to believe that the life you’re trying to build is worth the effort it takes to get there.

I’m still learning. I’m still making mistakes. I’m still trying to figure out how to fund my films, find the right collaborators, and create opportunities that might not otherwise exist for me.

But I think back to that night at Cinema Village, sitting in the audience and watching people laugh, fall silent, and engage with something I created. I think about the teenage version of myself who begrudgingly made a film just to finish a nonprofit program.

She had no idea where that first film would take her.

And honestly, neither do I.

Trailer for The Pacified Rage:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ru3EPXg30mk

Lessons I’ve Learned as a Filmmaker was originally published in Engage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.