Chapter Five — The Entity of Beginning

There are mornings on cruises that I especially love.

Those early hours, before most of the passengers wake, when the ship is still quiet and the sea spreads around it almost without motion.

Sometimes I go up to the deck with a cup of coffee, find a quiet corner and sit facing the horizon.

At first everything looks gray.

It is hard to distinguish where the water ends and the sky begins.

And then a thin line of light appears.

I can sit there a long time and watch the slow change. There is no single moment at which one can say with certainty that the night ended and the morning began. And yet, a short while later everything already looks different.

On one of those mornings I found myself thinking about beginnings.

About the things I began in my life, about those I postponed and about those I would still like to try.

I thought also about age.

In our youth it seems that life is full of beginnings. Studies, work, love, family, new places. Everything is still ahead of us, and even when we err, there is a feeling that there will be enough time to try again.

But as the years pass, something in our relation to beginnings changes.

We become more aware of time, of the price of decisions, of possibilities that are no longer open before us.

And suddenly a question arises that did not occupy us to the same degree in the past.

Is there an age at which it is already too late to begin something new?

⸻

I tried to imagine beginning itself.

What figure could there be for a thing that does not yet have a clear shape?

To my surprise, a young woman rose in my imagination.

Not a child, but also not a woman who had already gathered many years of experience. There was something curious in her, as if she herself did not yet know what was about to happen.

I imagined her leaning on the deck rail beside me.

"Why do you look so young?" I asked.

"Perhaps because that is how you are used to thinking about beginnings."

"Possibly. After all, most of the big beginnings in life happen when we are young."

"Many of them," she replied. "But not all."

"So why does it still seem to me that there is an age at which it is less fitting to begin?"

"What does 'fitting' mean?"

I thought about the question.

"Perhaps I mean that there are things we are expected to do at a certain age. To study when young, build a career, start a family. Afterward it seems that life is supposed to settle."

"And who sets that order?"

"Society, to some degree. And we too."

"And does that order fit everyone?"

"No. Clearly not."

"Then perhaps it is worth distinguishing between what is customary to do at a certain age and what is possible to do at it."

I looked toward the horizon.

"But there are also real limits," I said. "Not everything is possible at every age."

"True. There are beginnings that depend on the body, on circumstances or on the time remaining. Not every possibility stays open forever."

"I am glad you say that. Sometimes people are encouraged to begin anew as if there were no difference between twenty and sixty."

"And there is a difference," she replied. "But the difference does not mean that all the possibilities have closed."

⸻

"There is something that is hard for me in beginnings," I admitted.

"What is it?"

"The need to be a beginner again."

She smiled.

"Why is that hard for you?"

"Because there are already things I know how to do well. I am used to understanding, deciding, conducting myself with confidence. And then I enter a new field, and suddenly I am again the one who asks simple questions, makes mistakes and does not always know what the next step is."

"And that bothers you?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Perhaps because at a young age we expect of ourselves not to know. At an older age we are already used to being experienced."

"But your experience in one field does not make you an expert in every other field."

"I know. And still, it is not always pleasant to feel inexperienced."

I thought of the times I began learning something new.

At first there was great enthusiasm. I wanted to understand everything, advance quickly, see results.

But after the first enthusiasm came the stage at which it became clear how much I still did not know.

At times it was precisely there that the real difficulty lay.

"Perhaps we love the idea of a beginning more than the work involved in it," I said.

"Sometimes. At the start of the road it is easy to imagine the result. It is harder to live through the period in which you are not yet good at what you chose to do."

"So what helps to get through that period?"

"What helped you in the past?"

I tried to recall.

"Patience, I suppose. And also real interest in what I am doing. When something intrigues me enough, I am willing to be not good at it for a while."

"And perhaps that is one of the questions worth asking before a new beginning," she said. "Not only whether you want the result, but whether you are willing also for the road that leads to it."

⸻

The light at the edge of the horizon grew stronger.

A few passengers appeared at the end of the deck, looked at the sea and went on their way.

"I want to ask you something about time," I said.

"Please."

"When a young person begins something, he can imagine decades ahead of him. When I begin something today, I am aware that I have less time."

"True."

"And that changes the decision."

"In what way?"

"I think more about the question of whether the thing is worth the time I will devote to it. Once I could begin something just to see where it would lead me. Today I choose much more carefully."

"And is that necessarily a disadvantage?"

"Not always. Sometimes precisely the knowledge that time is limited helps me understand what is really important to me."

"So perhaps you begin from a different place than you began in the past."

"What do you mean?"

"You bring with you experience, clearer preferences and a deeper acquaintance with yourself. But you bring also habits, apprehensions and expectations built over years."

"Meaning, experience can help and also hinder."

"Exactly."

I pondered that.

There is something liberating about a beginning when we are young. Sometimes we simply try, without knowing how many things could go wrong.

But there is also an advantage to experience.

Today I know how to identify more quickly what fits me and what does not. I know my strengths, and also the places where I need help.

"So in fact there is no beginning from zero," I said.

"Not entirely. Even when you begin in a field you do not know, you bring with you the person you have already become."

"And perhaps sometimes I would like to leave part of him behind," I smiled.

"That too is a possibility worth thinking about."

⸻

"And what about beginnings that did not succeed?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"There are things I began with great enthusiasm, invested time, money and effort in them, and in the end they did not lead to the place I had hoped to reach."

"And how do you think about them today?"

"It depends on the case. There are things I am glad I tried, even if they did not succeed. And there are those I still think perhaps it would have been better not to begin."

"Why?"

"Because not every experience becomes a pleasant memory or an important lesson. Sometimes one simply loses something."

She was silent for a moment.

"That is true," she said at last.

I was slightly surprised.

"I thought you would tell me that every beginning is an opportunity to learn."

"One can learn also from failure. But the learning does not always compensate for the price you paid."

"So how can one know in advance whether it is worth beginning?"

"Not always can one. One can check, prepare, ask questions and assess the risks. But if it were possible to know with certainty how everything would end, a large part of the difficulty in the decision would disappear."

I thought about that.

Perhaps one of the reasons we hesitate to begin is that we want to receive in advance a promise that the effort will be worthwhile.

But life does not provide such promises.

"And perhaps there are also beginnings it is right to give up," I said.

"Certainly. Not every idea needs to become a deed."

"That sounds almost strange to hear from the entity of beginning."

"Why?"

"I thought you would want people to begin as many things as possible."

"But a beginning is not an achievement in itself," she replied. "There is meaning also in what you choose not to begin, in order to make room for something else."

I loved that answer.

It was far from the simple encouragement we are used to hearing.

⸻

"There is another thing I think about," I said.

"What is it?"

"Sometimes it seems to me that people around me are already at a different stage of life. They talk about slowing down, resting, enjoying what they built. And I still want to create new things."

"And do the two contradict each other?"

"Not necessarily. But sometimes I wonder whether I simply do not know how to stop."

"Do you want to stop?"

I thought for a moment.

"Not entirely. I love the quiet, the travels, the time for myself. But I also love feeling that there is something that intrigues me, something I want to learn or create."

"Then perhaps the question is not whether the time has come to stop beginning, but what place you want to give beginnings in your life."

"Possibly."

I looked at the sun that had begun to appear above the waterline.

"I have a feeling that today I choose differently," I said. "I no longer want to do everything only because it is possible. I want to choose things that have meaning for me."

"And what counts as meaningful in your eyes?"

I smiled.

"That is already a big question."

"I can wait."

I tried to think.

"Perhaps something that stirs real curiosity in me. Something that allows me to create, to understand, to feel that I am developing. But not always. Sometimes a small and simple thing can also be a good beginning."

"Like what?"

"A new conversation. A small habit. A book I begin writing without yet knowing where it will lead."

"And do you need to know in advance what its meaning will be?"

"Probably not."

⸻

"I have another question," I said. "When does a beginning really begin?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because sometimes I look back and discover that important things in my life began long before I understood that they were beginning."

"Can you give an example?"

"Sometimes a small idea stays with me for years. I do nothing with it, only think about it every so often. And then one day I decide to act. Was the beginning on the day the idea was born, or on the day I took the first step?"

"What do you think?"

"I am not sure."

"Perhaps there is more than one moment that can be called a beginning."

"Meaning?"

"There is the moment at which something stirs interest in you, the moment at which you decide to act, and the moment at which the action begins to change your life. They are not always the same moment."

I thought about that.

How many ideas were born in me while walking, on a trip or in a chance conversation, and only months or years later became something real?

"So perhaps we do not always recognize a beginning while it is happening," I said.

"Sometimes only in retrospect can one see from where a certain road grew."

"And that makes me wonder how many beginnings are already happening in my life now, without my knowing."

"Possibly there are some."

⸻

The sun had already risen above the water.

The deck, which was almost empty when I arrived, had begun to fill.

People came out with cups of coffee, a couple stood by the rail and photographed the horizon, and in the distance I heard children laughing.

The day had begun to wake.

In my imagination the young woman still stood beside me.

"I think I would like to ask you one last question," I said.

"I am listening."

"How will I know what my next fitting beginning is?"

"I do not know."

I looked at her.

"Even you don't?"

"I can help you think about beginnings. But I do not know in advance everything you will meet along the way, and you too are still changing."

"So you have no answer for me?"

"Not a final answer. Perhaps there is something you have been returning to think about for a long time. Perhaps there is a thing you want to try, but have not yet found a place for in your life. And perhaps the next beginning will come from a place you did not expect."

I looked at the sea.

I did not know what my next beginning would be.

I had ideas, of course. I always have ideas.

Some of them big, others small. Some accompany me for years, and others appear for a moment and vanish.

I do not know which of them will become reality.

But that morning made me think differently about the very possibility of beginning.

⸻

I went down from the deck when the ship was already fully awake.

On the way I passed people planning their day, passengers returning from breakfast and a couple debating which activity to join.

Life around me went on as usual.

I thought about how perhaps also the end of a certain period can make room for a beginning that was not possible before.

And perhaps not every beginning has to be big or change the course of life.

Sometimes it can be only a decision to try something we have not tried.

Or to look anew at a thing we already knew.

I recalled the young woman I imagined on the deck.

Interesting that I chose to give beginning young features.

Perhaps next time I think of her I will imagine a woman my own age.

And perhaps she will have no shape at all.

After all, beginnings do not belong to a certain age.

They belong to the moment at which something begins.

And what will my next beginning be?

I still do not know.

But I am curious to discover.

Continue to Chapter Six: The Entity of Night

© 2026 Nurit Rozenblat. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without the author's prior written permission.