We often talk about where things begin, yet less about where the beginning ends. At which point the beginning drifts steadily into something more familiar; if it drifts at all.
Perhaps the beginning ends when the book we’re reading falls open naturally at the page we’ve turned to more than once; or when the anticipation of a lyric we love is more delicious that the curiosity of whats to come.
Perhaps its when the paint on a fresh canvas begins to find its own path, settling into the grooves and ruts cast by paint which has come before; or is it the moment we stop noticing with annoyance the stain on our favourite recipe and instead feel the rush of warmth when we remember that moment, that meal.
What mark in the road do we pass which signifies that the beginning of our journey has now ended, that we’re now immersed in rhythm and movement, where sounds are familiar and we’ve found our groove.
And if we’re trying to determine the moment at which the beginning ends, where does the end start to begin?
Maybe it’s when a partners laughter grates rather than delights; or when our legs feel heavy with exertion, and the thought of rest holds more appeal than the beauty of the view ahead.
Is it that moment when we can feel the comfort and ease of clothes, now worn in, which settle into our shape and form, softly holding not restricting.
Or, perhaps its when the rush and noise of the city which felt like glorious anonymity for so long, now just feels like loneliness.
Maybe every beginning is the first step on the road to the end. Yet if this were true, surely every ending is a step on the road to a new beginning.
Perhaps we need to think less about where things end and where they begin, and instead enjoy the gentle quiet of just being.
This piece was written as part of a Write Nights word bath, a glorious 90 minutes hosted by Julie Dryborough.