The second half of the '60s really was a kind of learning period

Bruce Cockburn, poet and troubadour of the spirit, once reflected upon his own journey with these humble words: “The second half of the ’60s really was a kind of learning period, in terms of writing, for me.” At first glance, these words may seem but a personal recollection of an artist’s early path. Yet when we gaze deeper, we see within them a teaching for all generations: that growth, wisdom, and mastery are born not in sudden brilliance, but in long seasons of struggle, practice, and discovery.

The meaning of this quote rests upon the sacredness of apprenticeship. Cockburn, like all who would speak truth through art, had to endure a learning period. The late 1960s were an age of upheaval—war, protest, rebellion, and rebirth—and for him, as for many, they became a crucible. In that fire, his gift of writing was tested and refined. He does not speak of fame, nor of effortless talent, but of learning, of years where mistakes were made, words revised, and truths slowly uncovered. His words remind us that mastery is not granted in a moment—it is forged across time.

The origin of this reflection is rooted in Cockburn’s own evolution as a songwriter and musician. Before his renown, before his songs carried the weight of protest and prayer, he was a student—searching, listening, writing, discarding. The ’60s, with their storms of change, provided him both material and mirror. In them he discovered not only his voice but also his responsibility as an artist: to weave the chaos of the world into lines of meaning that could awaken the hearts of others.

History gives us many examples of such learning periods. Consider the young Michelangelo, who before painting the Sistine Chapel or carving David, spent years sketching, chiseling, and serving as apprentice to older masters. The glory of his later works was rooted in long seasons of obscurity where he, like Cockburn, labored in practice, learning to translate vision into form. Greatness, whether in stone or song, is never born whole—it grows in silence and struggle before bursting forth in brilliance.

There is something deeply emotional in Cockburn’s confession. For it strips away the myth of the effortless genius and honors the truth of persistence. He speaks as a man who remembers the weight of notebooks filled with half-born lines, the hours of trying to find the right chord, the countless attempts to capture what the heart already knew but the pen had not yet learned to say. This honesty is a gift to all who struggle, for it says: do not despise your learning years, for they are the soil from which your fruit will come.

To future generations, his words offer both warning and encouragement. The warning: do not expect mastery too soon, nor fame without labor, for the seeds of greatness demand time to grow. The encouragement: that even in your hidden seasons, when success feels distant and your craft feels raw, you are in your own learning period. These times are not wasted—they are the very foundation upon which all future strength is built.

The lesson is clear: honor your seasons of learning. Practically, this means embracing patience with yourself, seeking mentors, studying diligently, and allowing yourself to make mistakes without despair. It means recognizing that the ’60s for Cockburn were not merely years of history, but years of preparation—and that each of us will pass through our own such time. What matters is not how quickly we arrive, but how faithfully we endure.

Thus Bruce Cockburn’s words endure as a timeless reminder: “The second half of the ’60s was a learning period in terms of writing.” Let them echo as counsel to all seekers: your learning years are not lesser years, but holy ground. In them, your craft is formed, your character refined, your voice prepared. And when the time comes to speak, to create, to lead, the world will hear in you not only talent, but the deep resonance of wisdom forged in patience.