Photo by Clayton Cotterell "I'm feeling complicated," a Facebook friend posted recently. When it comes to my birthday, I know how she feels.
No matter how incredibly blessed I am in my life on so many levels, there are always some "It's my party, I can cry if I want to" moments when the calendar turns to 12/12. The echoes of the past pound loudly in my ears: my first birthday, spent in an isolation unit of an Army hospital in Germany; my 12th, the day of my parents' divorce; four years ago, the two trips to the ER with a ruptured disc in my neck.
This year the traumas of birthdays past were met by fears of the future. I had marked the entrance to my fifties two years ago with a ceremony in which I asked "for the courage and the grace to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of my own unfolding."
I am loving, for the most part, where the current is taking me. I just hate what it's doing to my skin.
In my mail box this last week arrived the latest issue of my college alumni magazine featuring a truly lovely profile of my current work, with an equally lovely full-page, nearly life-size photographic portrait - the first photo I've seen in which I look my age: neck wattled, eyelids droopy, skin coarse. (Believe me, the digital version glosses over what's revealed on the heavy matte page.)
I feel humiliated by my vanity; humbled by my unexpected age-phobia. I know how extremely fortunate I am to enjoy good health and vitality as so many around me suffer severe physical afflictions; to be in a loving partnership of 18 years while so many live lonely; to have such meaningful work in my life, and to be so recognized and appreciated for that work.
But "Facing the End" remains complicated. I may talk about it every day. But that doesn't mean I don't recoil to a deeply fearful place when I contemplate my mother's death, or Amber's, or Marcy's. Or look with confusion and aversion on the impact of time and gravity on my skin.
And so, on my birthday, I honored the complicated parts with some tears, in the sturdy embrace of my beloved. And I celebrated the many blessings of my life with a succession of sweet moments of connection, culminating with a raucous performance of an epic birthday play written, acted, and produced by Ava (11), Bennett (newly 8); Josie (7 for two more months), and Jules (nearly 3).
Later, as Amber and I sat by our fireplace for a wind-down round of Bananagrams, I realized the complications had washed away. I felt bathed in love and gratitude.
No matter how incredibly blessed I am in my life on so many levels, there are always some "It's my party, I can cry if I want to" moments when the calendar turns to 12/12. The echoes of the past pound loudly in my ears: my first birthday, spent in an isolation unit of an Army hospital in Germany; my 12th, the day of my parents' divorce; four years ago, the two trips to the ER with a ruptured disc in my neck.
This year the traumas of birthdays past were met by fears of the future. I had marked the entrance to my fifties two years ago with a ceremony in which I asked "for the courage and the grace to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of my own unfolding."
I am loving, for the most part, where the current is taking me. I just hate what it's doing to my skin.
In my mail box this last week arrived the latest issue of my college alumni magazine featuring a truly lovely profile of my current work, with an equally lovely full-page, nearly life-size photographic portrait - the first photo I've seen in which I look my age: neck wattled, eyelids droopy, skin coarse. (Believe me, the digital version glosses over what's revealed on the heavy matte page.)
I feel humiliated by my vanity; humbled by my unexpected age-phobia. I know how extremely fortunate I am to enjoy good health and vitality as so many around me suffer severe physical afflictions; to be in a loving partnership of 18 years while so many live lonely; to have such meaningful work in my life, and to be so recognized and appreciated for that work.
But "Facing the End" remains complicated. I may talk about it every day. But that doesn't mean I don't recoil to a deeply fearful place when I contemplate my mother's death, or Amber's, or Marcy's. Or look with confusion and aversion on the impact of time and gravity on my skin.
And so, on my birthday, I honored the complicated parts with some tears, in the sturdy embrace of my beloved. And I celebrated the many blessings of my life with a succession of sweet moments of connection, culminating with a raucous performance of an epic birthday play written, acted, and produced by Ava (11), Bennett (newly 8); Josie (7 for two more months), and Jules (nearly 3).
Later, as Amber and I sat by our fireplace for a wind-down round of Bananagrams, I realized the complications had washed away. I felt bathed in love and gratitude.
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