Beginnings, Middles and Endings: A Reflection on the Poem, Aristotle,
by Billy Collins, Nov 26, 2017
©Rev Susan A Moran
Introduction:
This morning’s text is a poem written by Billy Collins called Aristotle. It’s in three parts, the first lines of which are: In the Beginning, In the middle, and In the end. I suspect that the title is due to the fact that Aristotle believed that all good stories had a beginning, a middle and an end. As you will hear in the reading, Collins ties several themes together throughout the three parts and the sequence of events is rather linear. First this, than that, and finally that. My experience of time, however, is not so logical. Beginnings and endings often describe the same event; most folks I know are always somewhere in the middle, and age makes little difference. Whether you are 9 or 90, time can stretch out as far as the horizon and give us such a grand feeling of spaciousness–or feel so constricted, you can barely breathe. This morning I want to spend some time reflecting on beginnings, middles and endings—I am hoping that my words and those of a very fine poet will spur some thoughts on time of your own, and that, you, too, will come to see the truth of all of the great wisdom traditions: the only time we have is right now, this very moment.
I invite you now to listen to the first part of the poem.
Aristotle
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.
And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.
Billy Collins, “Aristotle” from Picnic, Lightning. Copyright © 1998 by Billy Collins. All rights are controlled by
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
In the Beginning:
It can be so exciting at the beginning. The first date with that handsome guy you met briefly a month ago, just days after being convinced that you were going to be an “auntie” for the rest of your days. The first time you talked to that girl in English class and within 20 minutes, knew that you had a friend for life. Who hasn’t remembered the first time on a bike, or at the helm of a boat–in a new car, new house, new school? “Once upon a time” sets our imagination free, the possibilities are endless.
It can be so scary at the beginning. Will this date be followed by another? Is his heart beating as fast as yours? Is he going to call? Oh God, I hope he calls.
And what of your new friend? Will she drop you when she gets a boyfriend? Can you really trust her? Does she have your back or is she just using you to get to your pal Kevin?
How long will it be before your new car has a dent in it, coffee spilled on the carpet? And the new school is bigger and filled with unfamiliar faces, and you don’t know where to sit in the cafeteria. Once upon a time can set one’s teeth on edge: Too much unknown, too much uncertainty. The beginning seems to bring with it such optimism—What brings more happiness than the beginning of a summer vacation on the coast of Maine? What brings more joy than the beginnings of a spiritual life, a felt connection with the holy?
But the beginning can be heartbreaking: First night without her… No sleep for weeks, if not months. Shock and anxiety. How will I go on without my spouse? Without my child? How will I live knowing what I know now? How do I live after getting a diagnosis of ALS? How do they tell the young children that their father has cancer?
At the beginning, grief is so heavy, you can barely walk, the weight is suffocating. It sits on you, holds you down. Breathing takes work, concentration. Inhale Exhale. Inhale Exhale. In the beginning, we may find ourselves all alone, in a dark wood, lost and frightened.
“This is the first part
Where the wheels begin to turn,
Where the elevator begins its ascent,
Before the doors lurch apart.”
The beginning can be great. It can be terrible. It can be thrilling. It can be anguish. At the beginning, almost anything can happen.
Aristotle (con’t)
This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.
In The Middle:
This is where we live, almost always. Nothing is simple anymore. So much must be taken into account. If I do that, how will it affect the kids? Who’s going to take care of the dog? This is the thick of things. Your kids will be living with you for another 11 years, and that’s assuming that they will move out after college. You love these children; they came into the world, or into your home, at your invitation. They are still young and impressionable but you wish you could start over in some areas already. You worry. About their education, their friends, their manners, their morals. You have learned that the worst question being asked of you now is “What’s for dinner?”
Our youth have it no easier. Middle school can be a source of huge anxiety, high school no different. You are tired of the same kids, the carpool, the incessant homework. You have a project due on Monday and you haven’t started. Meanwhile, the working parents feel stressed almost always.
You are in the middle of a successful career, you keep getting promoted. People call you for advice and guidance. Yet you are restless. You are missing the early days when you didn’t know anything and you could be forgiven mistakes. You asked questions and people told you the answers. Now you know the answers and they aren’t the ones you want to hear.
So much is crowded into the middle: the car needs servicing and bills are waiting to be paid. We have a party over the weekend and Parent/ Teacher conferences are next week. There are doctors and dentists and orthopedists and physical therapists. There’s a regular tennis game but you’re not getting better. Your stomach isn’t flat—not even in the mornings; the wrinkles that used to go away after a good night’s sleep are still there.
In the middle, you realize that you will never be a NASCAR driver. You will never argue a case in front of the Supreme Court. You will never make that quilt of the fabric squares that have moved with you 5 times. You will never be a gourmet chef, owning your own restaurant. You will never write the novel.
There is so much crowded into the middle: Your life is rich and full. You love you friends, the ones who have stuck around through your divorce, your cancer, your accident, your move. You love your work. You are still learning new things but you’re not anxious anymore. You have achieved a level of competence and confidence that only time can give. Your kids are not so needy. They are turning out to be funny. They are turning out to be decent students. You can’t believe how good he is at hockey, at dancing, at theater. Who knew what a lovely voice she has!
In the middle, your teenagers talk and laugh together. You are so grateful that drugs and booze haven’t wreaked total havoc on your closest community. Holidays are actually fun. Everyone chips in. You mother is gone and you miss her but no one is yelling anymore.
You can’t stay up as late as you used to, but you still love to dance. And listen to the Rolling Stones in the car at top volume.
In the middle, we learn how to garden, how to fix the lawnmower, how to discern when to call the doctor and when to just take a nap. We don’t get that angry anymore, we are used to her leaving a trail of crumbs in the kitchen. Our spouse no longer walks on water, but we love him anyway, we can’t sleep without his large frame, thrown across the mattress, heating up the entire room.
We appreciate the winter, knowing that Spring will come. We miss our husbands, wives, parents, grandparents, daughters, sons, friends, neighbors and colleagues, but we have learned how to live without them, how to keep them alive in our hearts and in our stories.
So much is crowded into the middle—too much to name, too much to think about.
Aristotle (con’t)
And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.
In The End:
We are finally done. The dissertation is finished, copied and bound. The diploma is on the wall. The meal is on the table. The divorce papers have been signed. The divorce papers have been ripped up—the couple has decided to slog through this life together, after all.
This is the end of our waiting, the end of being single and having to wonder about every person we meet. We are in love. We have set the date to be married.
We have had our babies. We’re agreed that one, two, three, four, is enough. The days of trying to get pregnant are behind us. We are finally done with diapers, with elementary school, with car pools, with college.
Our job search is over! We start next Monday. It’s an easy commute, health insurance is included. There are really good people on your team. You are going to be happy there.
This is the end. The cancer has come back, and it’s inoperable. Hospice has been called. You get your affairs in order. You call the friends that are still alive. You make sure to see all of your grandchildren. You get in the wheelchair one last time as your grand-daughter wheels you around Forest Hills Gardens on a bright day in March. You don’t want to look at the photograph albums. Too many dead people, too many forgotten names and places. You eat nothing but ice cream and drink vodka and cranberry juice, heavy on the vodka. You have no regrets. You have lived well and long, and you never meant to outlive your son, your daughter, your grandchild, dead in a stupid, pointless accident. You see your mother; she’s waving at you and beckoning you to come closer. You look forward to seeing Georgie, who’s been dead since ’81. You are at peace.
This is the final bit, thinning away to nothing.
You’ve stopped crying every day. The heaviness of the grief is lessening. You went out the other night and laughed hysterically at the story Richard told about the pigeons. You meet a woman at the bookstore. You meet a man who wants to go with you to the lecture on the origins of bird song. You meet a friend of a friend and think you have found another soul mate. You no longer cry when you think of Maureen, you just remember how wonderful and helpful she was when you really needed her; you are just grateful for the time you had together. You close the book you hate to see end but you know that these characters are now part of your history.
Summer is ending—it’s time to get ready for kindergarten, for work, for college, for a new job. You hate to say goodbye to friends but you are a little excited about starting something new.
Careers end. You leave that job to go to seminary. You have a great time at the goodbye party. You have no second thoughts about leaving this career. It’s been good to you but you’re done. You’ve cleaned out your desk, filed the papers, given the good stapler to Sally.
You graduate from law school and you are so proud of all the work you’ve done here, you can’t believe it’s over. You leave New York City after 15 years; you never thought you would. But Boston is great and you have a new job and a new apartment and you love starting fresh! You’re going to start a family and who knows what will happen next?
Epilogue: All beginnings are endings and all endings are beginnings. The middle is ever-present. We are caught, inescapably in the beginning, in the middle and in the end. Swirling around every day, round and round: beginnings, middles, endings. Every day, every month, every action, every thought. How can one be better than another when they are so similar, so intertwined. What is the answer but to savor the moment we are in, right now, right here. Even if it’s sad and frustrating. Even if it’s not what we had planned. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Round and round goes the wheel of life. Nothing to do but hold on tight to one another, and love one another fiercely; nothing to do but try to enjoy the ride.