Rediscovering Wonder: Write on the First Page

A few days before the new school term started, I'd sit at the kitchen table with a wastepaper bin balanced on my lap and a pencil sharpener in my hand.

One by one, I'd sharpen all my new pencils and coloured pencils, watching the curls of wood fall into the bin. Even now, the smell of freshly sharpened pencils takes me straight back.

I wasn't really excited about school. I was excited about the possibility of it all: a new classroom, new exercise books, new things to learn and friends to see again. It was the feeling that something was beginning.

I sometimes think September feels more like the start of a new year than January ever does. We've had the long days and the holidays, the adventures and the slower rhythms of summer, and by September I'm often ready for something new.

Summer is beginning to fade, holidays are coming to an end, and we start finding our way back to familiar routines and everyday rhythms. There's a sense of anticipation in the air: not quite summer anymore, but not quite autumn either. A season of beginnings.

As children, we seemed to embrace beginnings much more easily than we do now. We expected to be beginners. We didn't expect to pick up a pencil and have perfect handwriting. We didn't expect to be good at something the first time we tried it.

We simply began.

As adults, I think we become much more conscious of making mistakes.

One of the things I hear most often in the shop is:

"It's too beautiful to use."

People fall in love with a notebook but don't want to write in it. What if they spoil it? What if they write the wrong thing? What if the first page isn't perfect?

But I believe a notebook doesn't fulfil its purpose sitting untouched on a shelf. It's meant to be filled.

The crossed-out pages, coffee stains, half-finished ideas and messy handwriting aren't signs that a notebook has been ruined. They're signs that it has been used and loved.

And the only way to get past that intimidating first page is to write on it.

This autumn, I want to learn how to make fresh pasta. I lived in Italy and yet never learned while I was there.

Of course there's a practical reason for learning to make pasta. I get to eat the pasta. But that's not really why I want to learn.

I want to learn because it sounds fun.

I imagine flour all over the worktop and dough stuck to my fingers. My first attempt may be slightly wonky. It probably won't be very good.

But that's the point.

As adults, so much of our learning comes with a reason attached. We learn something for work. We learn because we need to solve a problem. We learn because we feel we should.

How often do we learn something simply because we're curious? Simply because it sounds enjoyable? Simply because we'd like to see whether we can?

This September, instead of asking yourself what you'd like to achieve before the end of the year, try asking a different question:

What would you love to learn?

Not for work. Not because you need to. Not because you'll be good at it. Simply because it interests you.

Maybe it's a language, watercolour painting or identifying the birds in your garden. Maybe, like me, it's finally learning how to make fresh pasta.

Whatever it is, don't leave it sitting on the shelf waiting for the perfect moment.

Write on the first page.

Give yourself permission to be a beginner again.