The Courage to Be a Beginner Again

On aging, curiosity, and the possibilities we have yet to discover

When was the last time you tried something you were genuinely bad at? Not something you once knew how to do and have become rusty at, but something entirely unfamiliar. Something that required you to ask embarrassingly elementary questions, make mistakes, and occasionally wonder why you had undertaken the exercise in the first place.

I have been doing quite a bit of that lately. After decades of working with computers, I recently decided to learn how to automate tasks I had always performed manually. What followed was an adventure involving unfamiliar commands, mysterious variables, considerable trial and error, and one particularly stubborn computer script that refused to stop repeating itself. At one point, I had to force the program to quit.

Hardly an auspicious beginning. Yet when I finally succeeded, I experienced something I had almost forgotten: the extraordinary satisfaction of learning something entirely new. And it occurred to me that this experience might have something to teach us about growing older. We spend much of our early lives learning how to become competent. We acquire skills, establish careers, raise families, and gradually develop a sense of who we are and what we know.

Over time, that competence becomes part of our identity. We become the people others consult, the ones who know how things are done. There is dignity and satisfaction in that. But there may also be an unintended consequence.

The more accustomed we become to knowing what we are doing, the less willing we may be to place ourselves in situations where we do not.

Who wants to feel like a beginner after spending a lifetime becoming an expert? And yet, perhaps that is precisely the experience we need.

Researchers studying cognitive aging have found encouraging evidence that learning demanding new skills can benefit certain aspects of memory. In one study, older adults who spent several months learning digital photography or quilting showed improvements in episodic memory compared with people engaged in less intellectually challenging activities. We should be careful, however, not to exaggerate these findings. Learning a language, playing an instrument, or mastering a computer program has not been established as a reliable means of preventing dementia.

But perhaps we have been asking the wrong question. Must an activity promise to preserve our cognitive abilities before we consider it worthwhile?

There is another reason to keep learning, one that has less to do with preserving what we possess and more to do with discovering what remains possible. Every Shabbat, we recite Psalm 92, with its striking image: Od yenuvun b’seivah, deshenim vera’ananim yihyu. “They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be full of vitality and freshness.” The psalm describes the righteous flourishing like trees planted in God’s courts. But what does it actually mean to bear fruit in old age?

We might instinctively think of accomplishments: another book written, another skill mastered, another contribution made. Yet surely the fruit of a human life cannot be measured only by what we produce. But bearing fruit may also mean becoming more patient with someone who tests our patience. Learning to listen without immediately offering advice. Discovering a new friendship. Becoming less certain that our opinions are always correct. Finding the courage to apologize, or the generosity to forgive.

Some of the most valuable fruit we bear may not be what we accomplish, but who we become.

This, it seems to me, is profoundly Jewish. Our tradition places extraordinary value on lifelong learning, not simply because knowledge is useful, but because learning should transform us. We study Torah not merely to accumulate information, but to deepen our understanding, refine our character, and become more responsible toward one another. In Jewish life, education has no graduation ceremony. There is always another question to ask, another interpretation to consider, another dimension of ourselves that requires attention. And that responsibility does not diminish with age. Growing older may give us greater experience and wisdom, but it does not release us from the obligation to keep growing.

Indeed, one of the privileges of our later years is discovering that we no longer need to excel at everything we attempt. We can learn simply because something interests us. Try painting, even if your first efforts are dreadful. Learn conversational Hebrew or Spanish. Explore photography, gardening, music, or a new technology. Ask someone younger to teach you something unfamiliar. And allow yourself the wonderful freedom to make mistakes.

Of course, aging brings genuine limitations. Not everyone has the same energy, mobility, memory, or opportunities. Curiosity cannot erase those challenges, and the inability to pursue new activities should never be mistaken for a failure of spirit. But growth takes many forms, and not all of them require mastering a new skill.

Which brings me to a small invitation for our Beth Tikvah community. We have spent lifetimes acquiring remarkable experiences. Our congregation is filled with people who have built careers, raised families, served their communities, and accumulated extraordinary stores of knowledge. We know a great deal about one another’s accomplishments. But how often do we ask what one another is still discovering?

But how often do we ask what one another is still discovering?

At our next Kiddush, instead of asking someone about their former profession or latest vacation, why not ask a different question: What is something you learned for the very first time during the past year? It need not be a new hobby. Maybe it was a technological skill, a historical discovery, a new understanding of a familiar Jewish text, or something unexpected about another person, or yourself. And if nothing immediately comes to mind, consider another question: What would you still like to learn?

Imagine the conversations those questions might begin. Imagine a congregation where we celebrate not only the achievements of a lifetime, but the possibilities still waiting to unfold. After all, a community devoted to Torah should also be a community devoted to becoming.

I cannot tell you whether my recent adventures with computer automation have made my brain healthier. I can tell you that they reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten. There is genuine joy in discovering that we are still capable of surprising ourselves. And perhaps that offers another way of understanding the psalmist’s promise that we may continue bearing fruit in old age. Not that we will remain forever young, or endlessly productive, or untouched by the limitations of time. But that our capacity to learn, to care, to change, and to become more fully human need not be considered finished.

We may have accumulated many years behind us. But we have not necessarily become everyone we are capable of being.