On Beginnings
Begin, and begin again, and again.
It’s been a season of beginnings. After officially landing my psychotherapy business in September, I’ve been re-learning what it means to be a beginner. It feels strange to write about beginnings as we approach winter and the year seems to be winding down, but I am reminded that beginnings are eternal, like breathing. We will never not be beginning in some way.
Beginnings invite us to bring something eternal into our present space and time. Beginnings enfold us. Long before we glimpse the first tangible signs of our beginning, the form has already been at work in our minds and hearts, dreaming its way towards existence, drawing us along its path to fullness.
At the genesis, the spirit breathes over the deep. And perhaps that’s where I am now- hovering over something I’m unable to fully articulate. For me, beginning anything has always been one of the hardest parts. Beginnings require humility and adaptiveness, something I seem to struggle with in my attempts to appear polished and professional. If something doesn’t feel fully formed in exquisite detail, I can destroy my creations before I’ve even made the first attempt, envisioning a thousand ways I may fail spectacularly. Beginnings are when I’m most likely to feel paralyzed.
I’ve learned that sometimes beginnings begin with loving commitment, or devotion, to the creation longing to be formed. We commit to a practice, to sitting down and writing for ten minutes, or looking up the word transpersonal, or reaching out to three colleagues. I’ve learned beginnings must begin somewhere, and rather than hindering through overanalyzing, I’m learning to loosen my grip on perfection and allow the clumsiness sure to exist alongside a new beginning.
But if beginning the first time is hard, to risk a second or third attempt still requires everything of me: the ability to tolerate another failure, the acceptance of looking a little or even very foolish, the quieting of the inner critic, the reassurance of the self-states and parts of me still seeking validation outside of who I am. It reminds me that beginnings are brave, that the most courageous and subversive act is to start despite imperfection. Perhaps the imperfection I’ve always feared is really what allows for my humanity to become visible- this visibility and vulnerability at the root of belonging.
I’ve learned that beginnings require deep trust. As a person who has made many beginnings, I have to believe that our visions and creations long to be brought into this world just as much as we long to bring them in. A beginning honors the creation’s own autonomous spirit. We steward the longing of heart, the vision of who we may become, and find that this vision rises to meet us when we can allow the spaciousness it requires to do so.
I don’t believe we can ever call a beginning good or bad, but I do believe there are ways to begin well:
Begin- either slowly or with a great leap,
And begin again, when the first beginning seems to have wandered off course,
And again, after that next beginning too.
And if a beginning feels slow, maybe it is the soul's way of seeking gentleness, of lingering with pain and discomfort, of witnessing the parts of ourselves holding a little too tightly to fear or worry or control- those presences protectively keeping us small and seemingly safe. If beginnings feel like they will never end, perhaps they never will. Perhaps we are meant to be eternal beginners, learning anew each day whatever the Holy has for us.
And so, may we all be held in this divine mystery of beginnings. May we begin well, and always be beginners.