The Practice of a Beginner 

On March 20th at 7:46 in the morning, the sun moves into Aries. It happens quickly, without pause. This is the vernal equinox, when day and night are equal before the days start to get longer.

I keep thinking about that moment, not because it feels magical, but because it marks a turning point when one side begins to tip the balance.

I've been feeling that same tension in my own life for a while.

I'm naturally curious and eager to understand people: what excites them, what holds them back, and why. This curiosity has led to remarkable experiences, but it also leaves me with a blind spot.

I focused my curiosity outward, paying close attention to what I saw in others.

I've noticed that people are often quick to point out what isn't working. They can describe the problem in detail, almost like turning a stone over in their hand. But when a possible solution comes up, the conversation often goes quiet. It's not tense, just closed off, like a door that seemed open was actually shut.

I call this the tyranny of certainty, a phrase I first heard from the writer Maria Popova, who often puts words to feelings you didn't know you had. Even when a problem hurts, it's familiar. You know what it looks like and have learned to live with it. Finding a solution means things will change, and even if you ask for help, it can feel too risky or uncertain. Oddly, the problem can seem safer than the unknown.

I know this feeling because I've done it myself.

Real exploration that leads to change needs a special kind of safety, not just comfort but a feeling of being welcome. It's a space where not knowing doesn't make you feel left out, and finding a solution is just the next step in being curious.

That kind of safety doesn't just show up. It's built slowly, in small moments of real attention: a question asked with no hidden motive, a boundary respected without resentment, a conversation that stays open even when it's hard. This is what I mean by performance as connection — not showing off, but staying present with someone until something real happens.

I'm also learning that you have to practice this kind of safety with yourself, just as much as with others.

Which brings me back to the equinox and that blind spot. What am I building? What do I value? Where have I stayed in discomfort because the solution felt uncertain?

As the days get longer and the season changes, I'm learning to sit with the uncomfortable but exciting feeling of not having all the answers, and to ask better questions.

On the morning of the 20th, I'll get up early. Maverick will be nearby, and the light will be golden as the sun rises in the east and moves into Aries, going forward without pause or regret.

I'm trying to do the same.