"Omnium rerum principia parva sunt." — The beginnings of all things are small. — Cicero
The sound of the bell lingers long after it has stopped ringing. It echoes down the halls, filling the space where uncertainty once lived, signaling a passage not just through the threshold of my classroom, but into something greater.
Some students ring the bell with hesitation, their hands gripping the rope as if afraid to let go of what they know. Others pull with force, letting the sound reverberate with a triumph that belongs only to them. Some laugh, some cry. And some—some never ring the bell at all.
Janus, the god of transitions, has always watched over these moments. A god uniquely Roman, he was neither imported nor borrowed from the Greeks. He belonged to Rome alone, governing the spaces in between—the doorways, the thresholds, the passages from one state to another. His temple, the Janus Geminus, was a living symbol of the Roman condition, its doors flung open in times of war and closed only in peace. Rarely were they shut. Rome was a city of conquest, always expanding, always in motion. Janus' doors, like Rome itself, stood perpetually ajar, welcoming change, disorder, and the inevitability of transition.
Ovid, in Fasti, imagines Janus speaking for himself:
"Everything depends on a beginning: I sit at Heaven’s gates, and no one is allowed access to Jupiter without first invoking me."
Janus is not merely a god of new beginnings; he is the god of what came before. His two faces—one looking forward, one looking back—remind us that no transition is isolated. Every step forward carries the weight of the past. Every threshold crossed is a farewell to what once was. Every choice made shuts the door on infinite others.
I have long felt a kinship with Janus. As a teacher of young adults—never “kiddos,” always young adults—I stand at the threshold with them, guiding them through one of the most pivotal transitions of their lives. I do not dictate their path. I do not walk through the doorway for them. I can only stand beside them as they make their choice.
Many years ago, I was given a bell as a gift. Atop it sat a pig with wings—a joke about my students’ success, the implication being that they would graduate only “when pigs fly.” At the time, it was a cynical humor, a small jab at the long odds stacked against them. But over the years, that joke transformed into something far more meaningful. The bell became a symbol, a rite of passage, a moment of recognition. When a student meets the requirements for graduation, they ring the bell, declaring to themselves and to the world that they have crossed the threshold into something new.
The students know the significance of the bell. They know that not everyone reaches that moment. The weight of transition is not lost on them.
But not all transitions are celebratory. Not all roads lead forward. Not all doors open to better things.
Last night, I learned that a former student of mine, just 19 years old, was arrested for the shooting and killing of a 22-year-old. I do not know all the details, but I know enough. I know that not long ago, he sat in my classroom, balancing on the edge of possibility, teetering between the choices that would define his future. I know that today, instead of stepping into adulthood with hope, he faces a different reality—one constrained, predetermined, shaped not by potential but by consequence.
I think of Janus’ temple, its doors flung open in times of conflict.
Today, those doors are open.
Rome understood that peace was the exception, not the rule. The pax Romana, the rare closing of Janus' doors, was a momentary pause in an otherwise relentless march forward. War was the natural state, transition the default condition. As much as I want to believe that every student will step through the doorway into something better, the truth is more complex. Some will hesitate. Some will falter. Some will find the door locked behind them before they even realize they’ve walked through it.
There are days when I feel as if I stand at the doorway with Janus himself, watching as my students make their choices. Some step forward into the light. Others disappear into the dark. And some—some remain at the threshold, forever caught between what was and what could have been.
The philosopher Macrobius, writing centuries after the height of Rome, offered this interpretation of Janus:
"He is the door-keeper of the sky and of the universe, and therefore he is the origin of the year, since the year follows a cycle like a door that revolves on its hinges."
Janus is the hinge upon which the future swings. He is not merely the god of transition, but of contingency—of the infinite possibilities that exist within every moment of change. A door, once passed through, cannot be un-walked. A choice, once made, reverberates forward.
Not every student gets to ring the bell. Not every transition leads to celebration.
There are students whose faces I still see in my mind, students whose voices I can still hear, who never made it to that moment of triumph. Some disappeared before I could help them find their way. Some lost themselves in the world before they even realized they were lost. Some, like the student from last night, stepped through a door without fully understanding that it would close behind them forever.
Rome believed in both fate and will, in the balance between fortuna and virtus—fortune and virtue. Some students are caught in currents they cannot resist, drawn into choices they do not fully grasp until it is too late. Others recognize the threshold and step through with intent. And some—some linger at the doorway, their future undecided until the moment they cross.
I wonder if my former student knew he was at a threshold before he walked through it. I wonder if, in his last moments of freedom, he felt the weight of transition, or if he simply moved forward, unaware that the path he was choosing would lock behind him.
Janus reminds us that transitions are not inherently good or bad—they are simply change. They are the moments that define us, whether we are ready for them or not. And as much as I wish I could stand guard at every threshold, ensuring that my students step into light instead of shadow, the truth is that I can only guide. I can only stand at the doorway and watch as they make their choice.
Some will ring the bell, their voices echoing with triumph. Others will vanish before the moment arrives. And some will stand forever at the threshold, waiting for a door that will not open.
I stand in the doorway, too—watching, waiting, guiding as best I can.
But in the end, the crossing is theirs to make.