Begin Again

Go ahead

When you’re over half finished with the knitting of that bright red scarf and your heart sinks as you see that, somewhere along the way, you’ve made a mistake, and what is supposed to be an obtuse triangle is very much not, begin again. Rip out every stitch, rewind the yarn. Begin again.

When you thought you knew where you’d be living, those handful of months ago, in that wonky house at the end of the long, hard move. And you rolled your sleeves, scrubbed it down, ready to apply paint, lay a few rugs, and place the furniture. Then the plan came to a screeching halt? Begin again.

Like the little one wearing his fancy clothes, hair slicked back, feet dangling from the piano bench as he sits at his recital in front of a packed house, his flip-flopping tummy stumbling his fingers part way through his piece, and the feeling of falling, of failing rolls over, nearly tumbling him with the panic of not knowing what to do now, and his teacher, who’s sitting nearby, whispers, “Just begin again.”

When living in our present country is an experience of daily disbelief that has me grasping for level ground. When unnerving words precipitate unnerving events, and mirrors of historical evils replay before my very eyes. When ideas spin actions that spin perception that spins the narrative that spins the world right off its axis. Begin again.

As I’ve sat in contemplation in the beginning of this year, these are the words that keep repeating: Begin again. They are both a hope and a challenge. Beginning again requires a letting go, a ripping out, a willingness to be corrected, to be changed. It asks me to both sit and to rise. It asks if I’m willing to care. If I’m willing to disregard the narrative so that I might hear the story. If I’m willing to see the truth and call a lie. It challenges me to read original words and to measure my own. It asks who my neighbors are and if I’m willing to love them. If I’m willing to listen, to slide one foot, then another, into their shoes. It asks if I’m willing to treat the least as honored and hold the greatest to humility. And it’s even bold enough ask this: Am I, am I, am I willing to hold principal above party? Begin again.

This is part of it. And also? Beginning again is parenting my phone. It’s taking walks, brewing tea, lighting candles, knitting a scarf, making soup, watering houseplants, running fields, writing letters, and reading books. It’s crafting a tiny dwelling out of a mudroom. It’s helping clients envision new iterations of spaces of their own. It’s writing words in the dark of early morning. It’s scones, hot from the oven, and it’s freshly fallen snow. It’s sweeping the floors, doing the laundry, hauling the trash, precious, precious life. It’s meaningful connection. Family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, together over food, in conversation and laughter, in hopes and fears and tears. It’s asking others: How can I help? and What do you need? It’s soaking myself in the goodnesses so I’m not drowned by the evils. It’s wholesome as antidote to harmful.

When I come across places, and ways where people are keeping each other well, where they’re living in ways that inspire me to begin again, I follow, and maybe even brainstorm how I might interpret their ideas in my own life. Here are some of them:

• Keepsake at Forestbound. Alice has a shop in the street side of her historic Massachusetts building called Keepsake that’s only open three times a year (spring, autumn, and holiday, plus Valentine’s Day - so technically four) where she welcomes all with gifts, antiques, art, books, and comfy chairs to sit and rest in while partaking of the nibbles on the sideboard. Her message is this: Don’t even buy anything! Just come, step away from the overwhelming world for a while, and catch your breath. I love how real Alice is. How she genuinely cares for what she does and the people who come across her doorstep.

• Bovina Farm & Fermentory. Owners Jake and Elizabeth decided “… that we would build a house in the woods and invite all of you in. We hope you’ll take off your coat, join us around the table, and stay awhile.” They offer family style dinners, serving local food paired with their own craft beer. Guests can overnight in their inn or cabin. This winter, they’re offering creative and resting retreats, open to anyone until they’re full. I’m drawn to their seemingly effortless way of creating welcome and warmth. I imagine that even your first time there would somehow feel comfortable and familiar.

• The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society. If you haven’t, you must! Read it, watch it! Both! In the most harrowing of times, they lived. With every literary reading, every meal shared, every loss endured, they became a family, deeply caring for one another.

• With paper & pen. Last year, a friend and I decided we’d regularly exchange handwritten letters. The anticipation and delight of this is more than I can express. Knowing someone took time to sit and gather their thoughts, write them on paper, put it in an envelope, address and stamp it, and mail it to you speaks to your very soul. We began again this year.

• Never Done. Couple Julie O’Rourke and Anthony Esteves film and produce a vlog that has become a weekly delight for me. There’s no music, no narration, no talking to camera. It’s simply footage of their everyday, or their project at the moment, or an adventure somewhere in their native Maine, their three boys very much a part of life. In addition to the videos, Julie writes so humbly, so well about that project or that week, drawing even more depth and nuance into the story.

---

Thank you for being here! For reading, commenting, and sharing my work. Subscribing keeps my words coming to your inbox. Your paid subscriptions keep this site going. I’m happy to say that nothing here is behind a paywall, loves, so read on! Thank you!