The day began all hot and humid. Cloud cover was predicted, but August 24th usually offers some sunny breaks, and on this day the clouds were gorgeously ornamental, no more. Clouds can be beautiful at any time, but the ones in late August, backed by an almost-autumn sky, are especially pretty. I begin the morning by taking a walk about the yard, taking in the rain-soaked earth from the night before. Dewy drops still cling to the leaves and flowers, capturing light and blooming all over again.
A song, all pomp and circumstance with darker undertones, plays in the brain, the way certain songs signal an eventful day, or just a day that should have some sort of deeper meaning, even if it doesn’t, even if you don’t. It’s a song for an entrance, or a promenade. It’s a song for a day that could go a multitude of ways.
Rather than indulge in the might and majesty that certain birthdays require, I decide to keep this day quiet and small, wishing to hold it in the palm of my hand. It starts with a breakfast of shortbread cookies, made by my friend Marline. Every birthday should start with sugar and butter and deliciousness.
Andy offers to make an omelet for lunch – a caprese omelet with fresh tomatoes from the garden, fresh basil, and a creamy hunk of mozzarella cheese. It is summer and birthday love on a plate, and I eat it out on the backyard patio.
By early afternoon, the day has grown even hotter, and somehow more humid, even though it felt like all the water had been wrung from the sky last night. I wade slowly into the pool as the sun beat down, indulging in the gentle joy of water against skin, and taking in the quiet around me. Only the low drone of summer insects breaks the silence, along with the occasional splash of a foot or hand disturbing the surface.
After drying off, I sit in the living room and light the end of a stick of Palo Santo incense, then begin my daily meditation. It is a moment of respite, in the cool shade of our home, while Andy showers and prepares for dinner.
We drive into Lenox, Massachusetts for some shopping, followed by a dinner at the Red Lion Inn. My choice – simple and unassuming – tucked away in the Berkshires and away from the madness that the end of summer sometimes brings. An unremarkable birthday, made remarkable because of that. What a grand new lesson to learn at the start of my 47th year on earth. When the pressure is off, when it’s just me and my husband, and when there is no fanfare or hype, the essence of pleasure opens up completely.
A lesson learned upon one’s birthday is a lesson learned forever more.
