The immediate aftermath of a birthday – even the most uneventful and downplayed of birthdays – can feel strikingly quiet and still. The idea of starting another year on earth gets more daunting the older I get. Maybe I’m simply more tired after doing this for 47 years. Maybe birthdays seem less celebratory and more worrisome with each passing journey around the sun; the world has certainly not gotten any easier or more enjoyable, even if my perspective and coping has evolved and advanced. Maybe I’m slowly coming to realize that a birthday is simply another day, and that birth and death are not finite beginnings and endings, but rather a continuation of some greater arc of existence. The mind struggles with such an idea, barely able to wrap itself around the notion. That’s a sizable shift in the way I’ve viewed our place in the world, and how I’ve categorized things in my head. I want to have a better grasp on it, a more stable handle on what it all means, but I’m not there yet.
I fear I’m not even close.
And so I pause, stepping into the summer light, studying the plants and flowers and leaves in the backyard, traversing the well-worn path I usually take, trying to find some new meaning, or some old meaning I may have missed in all these days and seasons and years. Approaching half a century of life on this earth, I allow myself an indulgent moment of weakness, a little bit of rest, especially as that long-ago feeling of wanting to sink down into the earth has been hinting at a return. It’s nothing I don’t think I can handle, but I want to be careful – that’s always when the universe doles out its vicious reminder that none of us are really in command, none of us are in control.
It is at such times I try to remember to act like some long-stemmed water plant rooted at the bottom of a riverbed, my feet stuck and bound beneath smooth stones, my limbs flowing freely and undulating with the current. Letting go and floating freely, secure in my little foothold on this earth, yet allowing the flow of life to go around and through me. The waters make turn wild and icy, murky and muddy, clear and crystalline, warm and womb-like – and still I remain in place, allowing them to move over me, giving myself over to whatever the water may carry in passing.
A day passes. A week passes. A year passes. Another birthday is done, another one may come.
