Every story has a beginning. A start. A first sentence captivates, and entices readers. A prose, dialogue, a simple word. A beginning ignites a story. Remembered by the author. And later, the reader. Yet, for human lives, our beginnings are not personal accounts. Most do not remember their birth, or recall their firsts. Others do. Parents document each step, each new tooth, every moment and look. Recalled in their memories, or in a baby book. Unlike books, our personal beginnings start with first memories. A baseball game, or another an airplane. Mine: a birthday party. My beginning starts with my 2nd birthday.
In fall, the month of October, I remember colors of red, toy cars and birthday hats. Friends and family sitting in chairs, on the patio. Words were murmurs, mumbles, and blares. Inarticulate sounds, and incomprehensible stares. The crisp grass, and trees, adorn with thick leaves, as tall as the sky. Pictures, smiles, laughing and crying. Grabbing toys and running. These slight memories remain my first. I cannot recall anything before that. Nor remember a detailed account. I’m left with distilled memories of others, from mother, father, or grandmothers. My brief memories of beginning.
These cognitions of life, brain waves, electrical currents of memories, start thought. Start our story. They are the birth of memory. Mind behind the body. No matter how far we look, we reach an edge. An edge mysterious like the Universe. Lives expanding, no end in sight, aside death. We see forward and back, to a point. First memories unknown. Untouched. For our beginnings rely not on ourselves, but the words of others.
Beginnings are not found within the self, but outside. In space. In time. Around others, between walls. In whispers, murmurs. Touch and sight. Triumph and plight.
To look out, and not in. That, I believe, creates change and creates the self.
Stay humble. Work hard. Be kind.