There is a peculiar magic in beginnings, isn’t there? Like the first light of dawn breaking over the moors of Yorkshire, or the hesitant trickle of a stream carving its path through ancient stone. Beginnings are rarely grand, rarely perfect. They are raw, unpolished, and often unremarkable.
Yet, they hold within them the seeds of everything that is to come. 

I think of the great oak, which once was but an acorn, buried in the earth, unassuming and fragile. It did not wait for the perfect conditions to grow; it simply began. It stretched its roots into the soil, however rocky, and reached for the sky, however distant. And over time, it became a monument to patience, resilience, and the quiet power of starting. 

I am reminded of the words of T.S. Eliot, who wrote, “For last year’s words belong to last year’s language, and next year’s words await another voice.” How often have I waited for that “another voice,” that future version of myself who would be wiser, more skilled, more ready? But the truth
is, the voice I have now is the only one that matters. It is the only one that can speak today, in this moment, with the tools and knowledge I possess. 

The podcast I’ve been planning, the video script, the channel, the writing—these are not tasks for some distant, idealised future. They are for now. They are for the me who sits here, pen in hand, heart full of both doubt and determination. I think of the great explorers—Columbus, Magellan, Shackleton—who set sail not because they knew the way, but because they trusted the journey. They began with what they had: a ship, a map, a dream. And though their paths were fraught with storms and uncertainty, they moved forward. 

I think, too, of the Japanese concept of ‘wabi-sabi’—the beauty of imperfection, the grace in transience. A cracked teacup, mended with gold, becomes more precious for its flaws. So too, my first attempts at master will be flawed, perhaps even broken in places. But they will be mine, and they will be the foundation upon which I build. 

The research I’ve been avoiding, the scattered notes, the portfolio, the applications—these are not burdens. They are opportunities. They are the raw materials of my becoming. Like the potter at the wheel, I must begin with the clay I have, shaping it with my hands, trusting that the form will emerge in time. 

I think of the great libraries of Alexandria, repositories of human knowledge, built one scroll at a time. Each word I write, each task I complete, is a scroll added to my own library. It does not matter if the ink smudges or the parchment tears. What matters is that I write. 

And so, I begin. Not with fanfare, but with quiet resolve. I begin with the vocabulary I know, the ideas I have, the time I possess. I begin with the understanding that some days, I will soar, and others, I will stumble. But balance, as the ancients taught, is the way of the universe. The tides rise and fall; the seasons turn; the stars burn and fade. And through it all, life persists. 

I will not be anxious for the outcome. I will not fret over how it will be received, or whether it will meet some arbitrary mark. I will simply do. I will write the script, create the channel, send the email, read the book. I will learn the words, practice the craft, build the website. I will start from where I am, with what I have.  For in the end, it is not perfection that defines us, but the courage to begin. At the very start, a subtle magic unfolds—a metamorphosis that transforms the commonplace into the sublime, the mundane into the magnificent. 

So today, I take my first step. Imperfect, hesitant, but mine. And in that step, I find a quiet joy, a flicker of hope, a promise of what is to come. 

Fin.