New beginnings can hit us any time, of course, not just on regularly schedule calendar dates and socially recognized life-markers. It’s obvious, but sometimes I forget, caught up in cycles of birthdays, new years, new semesters, commencements, break-ups, weddings, new jobs and cross-state moves; the next thing, then the next thing, then the next thing. By now I have just enough new beginnings under my belt that I can’t help but notice a lot of the big, official ones seem to fall in the first two or three decades of one’s life. Or they’re supposed to, anyway. Maybe there’s no official document dictating the schedule of our allotted new beginnings, but we do seem to share a general idea of what this timeline would be: kindergarten then grade school the high school, dating then marriage then kids, education then training then career. Rebellion, experimentation, stabilization. Isn’t the renown condition of middle-aged malaise supposed to be about grappling with the notion that you’ve already done all the big things you’re going to do, that you’ve already gone through your supply of fresh starts? Maybe that’s why I find it easy to like stories about unexpected, unpredictable new beginnings. Unforeseeable new beginnings
