For some reason, we rush past beginnings only to long for them later. People say they loved their first crappy car, or that time in their life when they lived in a dinky little apartment, and yet at the time they hated them both. Dreamed of something better.
Being a newbie can be stressful, insecure, but you only get to do it once. After the newbie stage, you’re established, old hat even. Other people become beginners, they are at the awkward parts of the journey and you find yourself experienced, mid-journey.
It must be that success comes with pressure, complications. We strive for established, published, promoted and yet, when we are around a campfire or at the end of our lives, it’s the beginnings. We return to the firsts we couldn’t wait to get past on our way to greatness. It’s not even that we want to go back, but somehow the fumbling parts hold a higher place than the actually success, or the shiny things.
If there’s only one shot at being a newbie, we should probably try to pace through it, enjoy instead of rushing, wanting, complaining. That first knitting class when you stab yourself, the yoga class that makes you feel like a fool, or the first kiss. We should relax into the mess because once we get where we are going, once we are making sweaters, a master yogi and a brilliant lover, it will be…different. For some odd reason, we will then look at other newbies and smile.
People that have lived some life never long for, or get misty eyed over, the BMW, no matter how fancy the interior. They want it, sacrifice for it, or some equivalent, but once they get there, it must come with baggage they didn’t anticipate. It’s the first car they paid cash for, or the one with the squeaky door that somehow holds the allure.
We seem to have a love/hate relationship with beginnings. Life is funny that way.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Damn Drafty Bedroom.
adulthood crazy life dreams insecurity life meaning struggle age beginnings culture life thoughts Writing