Beginners Lead the Brave
It was October 2021, and Portland was just beginning to emerge from the coronavirus pandemic. Our city’s vibrant arts and music scene was coming back to life after a brutal hiatus, and when a friend asked if I wanted to attend a concert with her, I readily agreed. With masks on and proof of vaccination in hand, we put on hard pants and mascara and ventured back out into the world.
The headliner was a band called Love, Dean and this was the release show for their new self-titled album. The vibe was indie pop, complete with a dancing guy in a record costume, and every moment was delightful. I wasn’t familiar with the artist prior to that Sunday night in October, but as I sat in the historic Alberta Rose Theater, my breath caught in my throat when Rachael Price sang the line, “ I don’t need the luck, because beginners lead the brave.”
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It’s been almost a year and a half since that night, but the lyric continues to live rent-free in my head, “Beginners lead the brave.” Being brave is hard, and in my opinion there is almost nothing worse than being a beginner. I’ll almost always choose the familiar over the new, from making the cookie recipe I know by heart to staying in a job I don’t love simply because I’ve invested years in learning how to do it well.
There is an inherent messiness to new beginnings. Making a new recipe for the first time is clunky and time consuming and usually makes a disaster of the kitchen. A new relationship can be awkward and uncomfortable as you begin the process of getting to know and understand a stranger. Starting a new job causes me to spiral into panic with all of the unknowns — where do I park, how do I get my badge, where is my desk, and where on earth do they keep the post-it notes?
As I’ve pondered this concept of beginnings, I’ve come to realize that my bent towards perfectionism deeply affects my feelings about being a beginner. A beginner isn’t going to do it perfectly; in fact, we’re almost guaranteed to try and fail. A new cookie recipe isn’t deeply ingrained into my brain the way the old one is, and the first batch won’t be spectacular. A new relationship will be full of fumbles and mistakes and apologies and forgiveness. A new job requires a ton of humility to walk into a new role and new team and submit myself to learning these people and these tasks and frequently uttering the phrases, “I don’t know,” and “Could you explain this to me?”
Last weekend, I spent a day tackling the disaster zone that is my garage. In the two years that I’ve owned this home, my car has yet to see the inside of the garage, and I’m determined that 2023 will be the year that changes.
It’s a small space, just a one-car garage, and utilizing vertical space will be essential in the organization process. As I pondered the pile of 2x4s and scrap wood on the floor, I decided that some sort of wall-lumber-storage solution was in order.
For context, I grew up with a dad who could imagine and build literally anything. Not only did he build the house of his dreams with his own two hands, he was also a bit of an efficiency nerd and creating custom storage solutions for our family’s spaces was commonplace. When you combine being Michael Kann’s daughter with my childhood job running our family’s hardware store, I have a bit more experience in this area than the average bear — but I’m still a beginner at doing it myself.
As a child, I loved to “help” dad with his projects, but it was mostly just handing him tools and watching as he created beautiful things. As an adult, for a variety of reasons, I’ve never been able to have my dad help me with projects in my own home, and I didn’t realize until this weekend just how intimidated I felt. I knew that whatever I made wouldn’t be perfect, and I wasn’t sure where to start, and having enough hands to build something by yourself can be exceedingly difficult and frustrating.
But I needed a lumber shelf, so I determined to figure it out. There were no fewer than ten FaceTime calls to my dad asking questions, venting frustration, and showing off my progress. It involved cutting angles with my Skilsaw, (it took me three tries to pass geometry in high school, so angles are not my strong suit) multiple stripped screw heads, and split wood for want of a pre-drilled pilot hole, but do you know what? My extra lumber is now neatly stored on the wall, ready for my next project, and it hasn’t fallen down yet.
Don’t look too closely, but isn’t she a beauty?!
I chose to embrace being a beginner in this situation. How was I going to get comfortable using the skilsaw? I was going to practice using it, even if all my cuts weren’t perfectly straight. How was I going to learn that I needed to drill a pilot hole every time? I was going to split a couple pieces of 2x4 first. How was I going to know that I needed to use the impact driver instead of my puny 10.4v Makita? I was going to strip out a couple screw heads trying to muscle deck screws into the wall, and figure out that I needed more power.
It feels a little silly to say out loud, but building this shelf took bravery. I was brave enough to try something new, to get some things wrong, and to practice some new skills. As Love, Dean says, “Beginners lead the brave.”