The Energy of Beginning

Eager Days

Even without children in the house, the shift is unmistakable. In the last days of August, the world begins to lean toward September. On a recent morning at a local coffee shop, the rhythm of life seemed to sharpen. College freshmen gathered with their bright new backpacks, laughter spilling as they recounted summer adventures. Nearby, a young child grinned at her mother, telling her for the hundredth time how wonderful first grade was going to be. The air itself vibrated with anticipation.

After the long sprawl of summer, life gathers itself differently in these days. Where July invited lingering and leisure, now the season calls for attention, for readiness. Even small moments, like overhearing excited chatter or seeing the shuffle of feet and pages, feel like invitations to step into something new.

This energy is not limited to classrooms. Writers may find themselves drawn to fresh pages, gardeners toward autumn planting, and artists toward renewed focus. Small gestures—rearranging a corner of the home, beginning a daily walk, or opening a book that has waited patiently on a shelf—can ride this current. As a student, I remember the scent of new books, the crisp paper, freshly sharpened pencils and inks. Those smells brought smiles to my face and charged my heart with anticipation for what the year might bring.

On mornings when I tend the garden, fill the bird feeders, or watch Piper splash in her pool, that same vibrant pulse is present. The season’s energy announces itself insistently, ready to be taken up. There is no roll call, no schedule required—only the invitation to notice it, to step fully into the momentum, and to let it guide the work, the play, and the small, deliberate beginnings of each day.

No Rules, Except Discovery

Rachel Pollack, in her Arthur C. Clarke Award–winning novel Unquenchable Fire, offers a declaration that feels at once daring and deeply reassuring:

“There are no rules, except discovery. There is no tradition, except invention.”

These words invite us to step beyond the familiar boundaries we often place around creativity, learning, and spiritual practice. They suggest that the most meaningful work of our lives arises when we relinquish the comfort of rigid prescriptions and allow ourselves to enter into a genuine dialogue with the unknown. Discovery is not a matter of passively waiting for inspiration to arrive; it is the active pursuit of new insights, the willingness to ask questions that may have no immediate answers, and the capacity to notice the unexpected along the way. 

Invention, as Rachel frames it, transforms the idea of tradition. The past becomes neither a relic to be preserved unchanged nor an obstacle to be discarded entirely. Instead, it becomes a foundation from which we create anew. We take what has been given to us—stories, rituals, ideas—and reshape them in ways that reflect the realities of our own time, our personal experiences, and the visions we hold for the future. Tradition, in this sense, becomes a living organism, evolving through each contribution we make.

Rachel’s words resonate because they illuminate the courage required to live and work in this manner. Discovery calls us to risk uncertainty for the sake of authenticity, to take steps that may feel awkward or untested in the hope of uncovering something genuine. Invention asks us to weave our own thread into the greater tapestry, knowing that what we create today may guide, inspire, or challenge those who come after us.

When we embrace this philosophy, we grant ourselves the freedom to shape our own path while also becoming mapmakers for others. We honor the spirit of discovery by venturing forward without a predetermined route, and we uphold the vitality of tradition by daring to invent within it.

Re-entry

 A Month Went Quiet

I didn’t post last month. That’s not a confession—it’s just what happened.

Other work needed my focus, and I gave it. Amid an unusual month, I spent time tending the part of me that needs stillness to write with honesty. I protected it, reassured it that the physical act of putting thoughts to paper would reignite, and it has.

I’m grateful for the flow. I’ve missed it more than I admitted out loud.

Momentum and attention are again realigned. In my office, Lulu is purring and bounding in and out of her window box, my pens are filled with fresh ink, and a cup of Paris tea is steaming alongside me.