To begin, a quotation that asserts the benefits of being a beginner:
I read it on an Instagram account I follow, @ridiculoustinythings (in this post, specifically). The writer, who calls herself The Clumsy Miniaturist (but who is anything but clumsy!), says of the work she does here making teeny-tiny (ridiculously tiny! and ridiculously cute!) sweaters that her “hands are still learning,”that she’s “still building muscle memory for the familiar motions of knitting, but scaled down,” and she notes that her “results are so inconsistent.” But she goes on to write of “the martial arts concept of shu ha ri and how beneficial it is to put ourselves in the learning process, long before reaching mastery.” I particularly appreciate and applaud her observation that “there are mental benefits to being a beginner, to approach things as a beginner and staying open to adjustment and correction and learning.”
Pause to contemplate that, if you will, and perhaps you’ll express your agreement (or other response) in the comments below. I’ll pose a few questions at the end of this post to prompt you. . . .
As for myself, I seem to be a “professional beginner,” as a friend of mine labelled us both several years ago when we began reading each other’s manuscripts, both of us making forays into new kinds of writing (hers was subsequently published and joined several books of her poetry and creative non-fiction on bookshelves across the country), both of us having journeyed through a PhD program together and gone on to teach writing (academic only, for me; academic and creative for her) for years. (I finished a second draft, received some encouraging feedback from a few discerning readers and then tucked the pages away, not ready to proceed further for now.)
I haven’t begun any completely new activity for a few years, although I did have fun with a few Zumba classes last year. For the most part, I’ve felt busy enough keeping up with my Italian classes; with some semi-regular sketching (for which I occasionally take a class on-line or even, as last summer in Sicily, an in-person workshop); some knitting, embroidery, and mending; and my various fitness activities. Each of those, of course, offers many opportunities for learning. I suspect that — at least in our senior years (remember, I’ll be 70 in a few months!) — we tend to “begin” more often within fields in which we have already established some expertise, or at least a foundation: as we knitters learn a new cast-on method, for example; or, after several years studying a language, confront a tricky tense (passato remoto, I’m looking at you!); or bring home a few tubes of gouache from our neighbourhood Art Supplies store.
In fact, this is what The Clumsy Miniaturist is doing. Already an accomplished miniaturist, skilled creator of doll clothes, competent knitter, stitcher of tiny intricate quilts, she is integrating and extending a considerable repertoire of acquired skills as she works to acquire and solidify a new one — teeny-tiny sweater-knitting. For all I know, she’s also learned to scuba-dive in the last few months, never even having swum before that. Unlikely; perhaps possible. But I do know (from her on-line biography) that she’s a lifelong crafter, a knitter for 20 years, and a miniaturist since 2020. And that as accomplished as she is in this discipline, she’s nevertheless found a satisfying challenge which affords her the benefits that accrue to a beginner, “staying open to adjustment and correction and learning.”
Since I read her post the other day and since I began writing this post in response, I’ve been thinking about the opportunities for “beginning” in this stage of life. When I began sketching over a decade ago, the year before I turned 60, I revelled in the permission I took as a complete novice. I celebrated the smallest achievements and forgave shortcomings as a natural part of a learning curve. Not all the time, to be sure, but it was so freeing to be okay with not being good at something. And even when I did (’cause let’s be honest!) get frustrated — at trying to understand negative space and proportion and three-point perspective — I could use that frustration to inform my own teaching, experiencing something of what my own students must feel occasionally.
It was the same with Italian, when I began. Even more so with the Zumba classes last Spring, where I could just laugh at my fumbling feet, and make up whatever steps kept me moving to the lively beat.
But there’s nothing on my roster that I want to give up right now, so taking on something completely new doesn’t make sense. Instead, wanting to feel, anew, some of that Beginner energy and sense of permission, I’ve signed up for a 6-week workshop (2 hours weekly) in poetry-writing with an emphasis on voice (Breathe into Poetry, it’s called)– which I chose because it explores the relationship between physical voice and the figurative one that shows up in our writing. I’m looking forward to exploring a new way to write.
And I’m also carrying some anxiety about Beginning in a field where I’ve developed some rigorous standards over a lifetime of reading and writing, never mind advanced degrees and a couple of decades teaching literature. It’s a big field, though, and I haven’t spent much time in that corner, and my adventures in sketching have taught me how to silence the Mean Inner Critics. The teacher, I’m very confident, will be a wonderful guide and support in that, and I anticipate a happy mixture of discovery and discomfort and a resetting of my own “openness to adjustment and correction and learning.” I’ll let you know how it goes.
At the same time, after finally having had some significant work done on my piano a couple of months ago, I’ve been pulling old music out of storage and trying to get my fingers and eyes and ears working together again. Something of a “back to the future” beginner experience. . .
Those notations, if I’m remembering correctly, were written on my score of Francis Poulenc’s Mouvements Perpetuels something like 55 years ago (!) by the piano teacher who was preparing me for an exam and/or competition/recital. By the time we’d both done our part, I could play the three movements from memory, creditably, in front of an audience (which sometimes included an adjudicator, and once comprised only an examiner).
I can play it through again now, with the score in front of me, and at a much slower speed, but I’d be embarrassed to have anyone but Paul listening. My fingers have been stiffened by the decades that separate me from Aurelle’s pencil notations, and although I can sense some ancient muscle memory stirring, I have to stop regularly to adopt more efficacious fingering, to count leger lines that I haven’t yet begun again to recognize automatically. (does it even count as “beginning” when you return to an activity you’d once mastered?)
I’m not sure where I’ve wandered or wondered to, on this screen, chatting to you, but it’s taken me the better part of the day, and I’m going to wrap it up now. I’ll probably let you know how the poetry class goes, and perhaps even report back on the resurrection of my piano repertoire. Who knows? I may even manage a poem or two about the strangeness of sitting with my 15-year-old self on that piano bench. . .
But now it’s your turn. Does being a beginner appeal at this stage of life? Does it intimidate or liberate? Or perhaps there’s no space or need in your life to add something new for the sole purpose of being a beginner. I get that! Or circumstances are already forcing you to learn something new and you’d rather not. Are you okay with being inept at something new as you learn or is that uncomfortable? And is that consistent with your younger self as a beginner or is it new? After all, some of us are just beginning to be the Old Dogs learning New Tricks, against all the expectations. . . . I’m curious, as always. Tell me what you’ve begun to learn, lately. Brand new or an adaptation or extension of something you’re already good at? Formal instruction or YouTube or getting your neighbour to show you how to knit? All grist for my cogitative mill.
xo,
f
I’ve always liked trying new things and going new places, but my life is quite full right now, so I’m not really yearning to add anything new to the mix. I have been working on learning Spanish online. I have a long way to go to become fluent, but I’m looking forward to putting my limited skills into practice in Mexico next month.
Author
Yes, there are times when enough is enough! I’m pleased to hear that you (and your husband, I’m guessing) are going to enjoy a warm respite in Mexico and I suspect you’ll be pleased with how much difference your Spanish lessons will make, even if you’re some distance from fluent. Brava!
Here’s what I have learned along the way…I like trying new things or things I have pondered for some time and wondered how I might be when attempting them and it doesn’t matter if you are not brilliant at them. Just have a bash. And there are some things that I have absolutely no talent for whatsoever. I am not bad at a number of things, with occasional flashes of pretty/very good but they have meaning for me and that is enough. I have discovered, at almost 66, that I absolutely love engraving metal; had life been different, I might have made a living in this way. Had I even known about it as a skill. Had such things been on offer when young. Had I considered it a possibility. I have also realised that I have no inherent flair for dreaming up new designs, though I gaze in wonder at the work of those who do. But the most important thing (as far as I am concerned, I hasten to add) is that I absolutely loathe the concept of taking things on as a challenge. I don’t fancy many more challenges – there are enough things to face as it is, thanks. They also serve who sit and grave (slowly).
Author
My mother, an intuitive and passionate gardener who had little time to indulge her interest before her 50s, once said to me, wistfully, in her early 70s, “I finally know what I would have wanted to be when I grow up — a horticulturalist!” You remind me of that with your discovery about metal engraving.
I’m trying to square your loathing of taking on a challenge (or perhaps it’s rather of doing something primarily as a challenge?) with your completion of numerous marathons. I only did one — and I definitely saw it as a challenge (although also out of curiosity? Could I meet the challenge?). . .
Primarily to change my view of myself as rubbish at running after a lifetime of hideous PE lessons. Then because I found I liked it and, along the way, I found that removing the challenge element and just putting one foot in front of the other seemed to strike a chord in me. I liked feeling fit and capable and full of optimism, even as I slogged along. The moment I tried following running plans and aiming for PBs all the joy went out and, invariably, I found myself giving up the plans and just plodding on. Curiosity was definitely part of it. In fact, probably the major element: could I? What would it be like?
Author
Ah, not so different from my own approach then, except that I would define finding the answer to that “could I?” as a challenge. I do remember a friend and colleague asking me why I’d done a Half Marathon, maybe the first one, and I answered that I just wanted to. . . she teased me that it didn’t quite measure up to Nike’s imperative Just Do It!
Because I am that true creature of habit, and because I know myself pretty well now (age 64), I have learned to nudge myself to try new things. I won’t call it force as that is too harsh and I will rebel against it. There is such a vast world of “stuff” to explore … which is exciting to contemplate. Nothing too adventurous (no skydiving or mountain climbing for me) but softer pursuits. Taking a drive to a new town. Trying a new cuisine. Recently I began exploring creating mixed media art … I’m not great. But, I love it! I’m not retired yet, but it’s on the horizon. Can’t wait to begin that new chapter and devote more time to new things.
Author
Yes!! There are so many possibilities to explore in this vast world!! Isn’t it good to know how to “nudge ourselves” in certain directions now that we “know ourselves pretty well”? (I love that you love creating mixed media art, even at this initial stage when you think you’re “not great” — it’s hardly the point, is it, when we’re having fun?!)
What great brain exercise the resurrection of the piano repertoire must be. To have the newly tuned and repaired piano right there in your midst must be such a joy.
Yes, I do like being a beginner at things-many things, but not technology; that just ramps up my blood pressure!
Having recently moved from one section of SE London to another neccitates a significant learning curve. While the transport links are just as plentiful and fast as where we lived before, it is a part of the network that is very new to me. Easy enough to work with normally, but doing this while the extensive and lengthy train strikes continue has made it a triple challenge. Worth persisting toward semi-mastery, though. Even if I do swear a lot inside my head.
Youtube teaches me incredibly useful things worth learning: basic DIY home stuff, beginners painting lessons, cooking with different spices, etc..
So, yes, learning as a beginner challenges me in a nice way. But, not with technology!!!!(may have mentioned that).
A.in London
Author
Oh, I’m with you on not enjoying a beginner role when it comes to technology (My mother-in-law, on the contrary, had fun with this kind of frustration, from her early 60s through ’til about her mid-70s; as an absolute amateur, she somehow taught herself several different operating systems, and a variety of software programs related to various hobbies — all from about 1980-2005!).
I can imagine how much work to learn the public transport system in a new neighbourhood in London (you have my permission — approval, really! — to use some of your best words š
Isn’t it crazy how much we can learn from YouTube these days?!
While there can be an element of frustration (perhaps impatience) at being a beginner, it is also an exciting experience, to be learning something new is hopeful and fresh. Over the decades, I have taken a few drawing classes. I have been frustrated with my lack of mastery in some of them. In others, I have been so excited to finally achieve a goal – the bottom of the vase looks like it is resting on a flat surface and the round top looks right. It’s been years since I had that experience and would love to start again. Once I get past the fear of Covid, I hope to jump back into classes.
I did Zumba for a while and loved it. I sometimes had the two-left feet experience, but it was fun and easy to laugh at myself. I thoroughly enjoyed the exercise aspect and the camaraderie of being with so many other people having fun and getting fit together. Plus, music. Fun, danceable music. What’s not to like?
I have to check out the Clumsy Miniaturist.
Author
Dottie, you raise an important point — Covid made such a difference to the enthusiasm many of us had for taking classes. Zoom helped fill a void, but I missed the social component that had generally been an integral aspect of learning something new — the association with other learners, finding a commonality among diverse sorts via our interest in whatever the subject. And some classes may never come back the same way (I’d much prefer to take the writing class in person, but that’s no longer an option, for example).
Yes! This is how I felt about Zumba — “Plus, music. Fun, danceable music. What’s not to like?”
Oh, you’ve got me thinking and I can’t sort this one out. I don’t approach things that way I guess. I go in sideways and if something develops into one of my ‘enthusiasms’ then I’m pretty far in before I realize what I’ve done. I don’t like too much organization and, on reflection, seem to have something against physical ‘output’. Unless I can eat it (cooking), or it grows and then decomposes (gardening). So I put on music and just dance. I compose poetry and mentally set it out on the page but don’t write it down. I must have begun these things but don’t remember feeling a beginner. Because we bring an existing set of skills and knowledge to everything we do, right? And apply them in different ways and then build on that. Maybe branching out instead of beginning.
Or focusing. I’m going to focus on x. I’m going to branch out a bit and focus on x. Expanding and contracting at the same time. I like it.
Author
I’m having so much fun reading all the responses to my maundering.
Yes, I like this organic approach as well and it’s what I do a fair bit of — particularly because I like a smattering of everything and I’m good enough (sometimes even pretty good) at a bunch of stuff (and I know well what I really don’t want to try). . .
But sometimes . . . the drawing is my best example . . . something I’ve never done before because I knew I couldn’t . . . and then what a revelation to find that, with the gentle push of a good instructor, I could. . .
I think that this idea of “bring[ing] an existing set of skills and knowledge to everything we do” is part of what my friend meant when she called us both “professional beginners” — both taking on new (types of) writing projects, both with PhDs under our belts. . We knew how to begin, at least. . .
I have always thought that learning a new skill that you truly enjoy is never a waste even if you are never going to be brilliant at it. All the years I rode I always took lessons, knowing that I could always improve my abilities.
When I was 63 , having practiced yoga for some years I studied to become yoga teacher. I did eventually do some teaching but that was not the point. When I retired from being a therapist I kind of fell into volunteering at a local animal shelter. I enjoyed walking the dogs, so different from anything else I had done. I spent a dozen years doing this. Sadly, this shelter has just closed. a friend suggested that I walk a another facility. So last week I took and orientation there and so far one of four required training sessions. The procedures here are different from my previous volunteer work, and I do not know if all these years later I am up to the task, but I will give it a try. In a more intellectual level the group I belong to sponsored by a local university will be starting the Spring semester soon. there will be classes given by professors and experts on various topics, world issues, local history, arts of all kinds. Four days a week and I can take the classes I want. On a more mundane level I just purchased a new cookbook and trying some new recipes. I was quite pleased at how my brown better blondies turned out ( as was my family) and I mastered a technique I had not tried before. Next week mushroom risotto.
Author
Yes, I love all these examples — and your idea that “learning [whatever] is never a waste.” I link that to what Georgia says about what we carry to a new skill, how that’s built from all the other learning we’ve done. And we become confident about our ability to learn something new — so that even when “the procedures . . . are different” you have a solid foundation for giving this new volunteer work a try. . .
I suspect your mushroom risotto will be delicious. And if you’re like my husband, you will go on to make it better and better with practice (I’m the happy tester!
One of your lines reminded me about a conversation I had more than 35 years ago when I was a single mother of fourāages 2-11. In order to support my myself and my family, I went back full time for a couple of years to finish my university degree so I was the oldster (37) in my senior honors seminar that included a small group of very privileged young folks, aged 21/22. The seminar involved spending a semester serving with various representatives at our state legislature where, among other things, we would respond to constituent lettersāor, if we were fortunateāwrite testimony to be read in committees on behalf of the bills being heard that session. So, what does this have to do with new beginnings? Well, your comment (about poetry), āIām looking forward to exploring a new way to write,ā immediately brought to mind a conversation between myself and several classmates at the beginning of the semester. As part of the honors seminar, we also had to attend a weekly technical writing class and these folks were furious at what they saw as an intrusion on their social lifeādidnāt the professor know they had other things to do (actually referenced attending partiesā¦š I’m sure you can relate to that as a former professor). One young woman, in particular, stated flatly that she āalready knew everything there was to know about writing,ā and therefore the class was a waste of her time. I kept a straight face and repeated back what she said; she nodded an emphatic yes! I chuckled a bit and said I hope she remembered this conversation twenty years from now because Iād love to know if she ever learned more about writing (or wisdom) by then.
As for me? I’ll likely never progress beyond a beginner in any number of things. And that’s fine with me. I don’t mind dabbling.
Author
Oh, that’s such a good anecdote, Mary! Wonder if she ever found out what she didn’t know!
I was the oldest by a decade or three for most of my university classes as well — we could swap stories, I’m sure. Our four children were about the same age spread as well, but I was lucky to have my husband as support — can’t imagine having done that on my own. Brava you!!
And I’m happy to dabble as well . . .
I love to try new things, but have to work at not being so hard on myself that it is no fun at all. I tried pottery class a few years ago and was REALLY bad at it. Once I stopped beating myself up over my lack of skill with the clay, I realized that I just didn’t want to do it. And so I’d spent most of my time drinking tea and chatting with people about what they were doing. I began to realize that the class for me had been simply a necessary break from marking every night. More social than anything else. Also… and I hate to admit this… I am a really poor student. In that I find myself constantly critical of the instructor. That’s not nice… I know. Plus, and this will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, I can’t stop talking. I’d hate to have myself in my own class. Ha.
You are so talented in so many things, Frances. I envy you your skills at art and all things artsy. Plus languages. That takes such patience.
Author
Funny that we are more likely to remember the new things we tried and were “really bad” at than the ones we learned and then folded easily into our lives — like all those outdoor skills you picked up once you and Stu got together!
I chuckled at the image of you drinking tea and chatting with the more committed novice potters — I used to do the same at a weekly watercolour drop-in here, enjoying the instruction well enough and sketching quite happily, splashing paint for an hour or so, but then when I’d had enough, I had no scruples about doing a tour of others’ work. And chatting. Because, like you, my needs for that class were as much social as instructional. (at least in the Italian class, as long as I do my chatting in Italian and am not disruptive, the talking isn’t a problem š
I share your tendency to evaluate the instructor — hard to turn that switch off, isn’t it? But I’ve been lucky to have some stellar ones as well and it’s fun to see how the modify the skillset to suit a different subject with its particular (often physical, environmental, material) requirements.
I love trying new things, especially as a beginner! Iāve found that for me if I can approach something with no expectations (from me or anyone!), I enjoy the liberation. I do also enjoy branching out in a field where I have some previous experienceā¦whether learning from just one person, in a group or online. I do know that even if I then practise skills or techniques in a group, I enjoy having the chance to play and do my own thing by myself later.
Oh, and like Sue, I hate to admit it but I inwardly criticise some teachers. I think about their delivery, or the way the content is structured, and then this seems to distract me from the fact that Iām meant to be learning!
Author
Exactly, Genevieve! So much liberation in a completely new endeavour when it’s approached with no expectations!
I do the quiet inner criticism as well when the teaching doesn’t suit me. Sometimes I can’t get past that at all, in fact, and exercise the option I have at this point in life. š
There’s so much data out there about the importance of trying new things as we get older, and the benefits those efforts offer in terms of brain plasticity. I remind myself of that every time I’m struggling with a new concept in Portuguese. š
I’d learned to knit as a small child (just the basics), but hadn’t touched it in many years, and took up crochet in 2008 or so, just because it looked easier. Then maybe 4 years ago, I saw a shawl I *really* wanted to knit, so picked up some needles and set out to re-learn. To my surprise, there was a certain amount of muscle memory, but it was still a struggle and a very steep learning curve. That first shawl is riddled with errors, but it’s still one of my favorites, and reminds me to persist when I get frustrated.
And to approach things with eyes and mind wide open.
Thanks for recommending the Clumsy Miniaturist. I’m added her to my feed – her work looks delightful, and inspiring.
Yes, there is much pleasure in learning. I even feel fairly confident that I am quite good at it after all these years of being a teacher myself. But in order to keep it up I need to perceive some progress, the activity alone (dabbling?) is not enough for me. Luckily, that is the case with my Italian, and also when it comes to mending.
I always feel like your love of sheer learning and process is a window into a room I rarely enter. Like, it has to feel good to motivate me, like exercise, or produce a result that feels good, like writing. I wish I could enjoy something just for the learning of it.