Happy Birthday To Me

(photo credit toa heftier/unsplash)

Tomorrow I enter my eighth decade. I remember thinking as a child that teenagers seemed incredibly old and I couldn’t even imagine, let alone contemplate, how old my parents and grandparents were, and yet here I am now, an official old person.

I read this short essay by Annie Lamott the other day on turning 68 and thought it expressed my feelings pretty well about turning 70. Life is pretty crazy and awful right now, but it’s also pretty wonderful too.

Thank you to all of my readers for being a part of my life. And, don’t forget to look up!

I am going to be 68 in six days, if I live that long. I’m optimistic. Mostly.

God, what a world. What a heartbreaking, terrifying freak show. It is completely ruining my birthday plans. I was going to celebrate how age and the grace of myopia have given me the perspective that almost everything sorts itself out in the end. That good will and decency and charity and love always eventually conspire to bring light into the darkest corners. That the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans.

But turning 68 means you weren’t born yesterday. Turning 68 means you’ve seen what you’ve seen—Ukraine, Sandy Hook, the permafrost…Marjorie Taylor Greene. By 68, you have seen dear friends literally ravaged by cancer, lost children, unspeakable losses. The midterms are coming up. My mind is slipping. My dog died.

Really, to use the theological terms, it is just too frigging much.

And regrettably, by 68, one is both seriously uninterested in a vigorous debate on the existence of evil, or even worse, a pep talk.

So what does that leave? Glad you asked: the answer is simple. A few very best friends with whom you can share your truth. That’s the main thing. By 68, you know that the whole system of our lives works because we are not all nuts on the same day. You call someone and tell them that you hate everyone and all of life, and they will be glad you called. They felt that way three days and you helped them pull out of it by making them laugh or a cup of tea. You took them for a walk, or to Target.

Also, besides our friends, getting outside and looking up and around changes us: remember, you can trap bees on the bottom of Mason jars with a bit of honey and without a lid, because they don’t look up. They just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. That is SO me. All they have to do is look up and fly away. So we look up. In 68 years, I have never seen a boring sky. I have never felt blasé about the moon, or birdsong, or paper whites.

It is a crazy drunken clown college outside our windows now, almost too much beauty and renewal to take in. The world is warming up.

Well, how does us appreciating spring help the people of Ukraine? If we believe in chaos theory, and the butterfly effect, that the flapping of a Monarch’s wings near my home can lead to a weather change in Tokyo, then maybe noticing beauty—flapping our wings with amazement—changes things in ways we cannot begin to imagine. It means goodness is quantum. Even to help the small world helps. Even prayer, which seems to do nothing. Everything is connected.

But quantum is perhaps a little esoteric in our current condition. (Well, mine: I’m sure you’re just fine.) I think infinitely less esoteric stuff at 68. Probably best to have both feet on the ground, ogle the daffodils, take a sack of canned good over to the food pantry, and pick up trash. This helps our insides enormously.

So Sunday I will celebrate the absolutely astonishing miracle that I, specifically, was even born. As Fredrick Buechner wrote, “The grace of God means something like, “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you.” I will celebrate that I have shelter and friends and warm socks and feet to put in them, and that God or Gus found a way to turn the madness and shame of my addiction into grace, I’ll shake my head with wonder, which I do more and more as I age, at all the beauty that is left and all that still works after so much has been taken away. So celebrate with me. Step outside and let your mouth drop open. Feed the poor with me, locally or, if you want to buy me something, make a donation to UNICEF. My party will not be the same without you.

21 thoughts on “Happy Birthday To Me

  1. I love this! She is a favorite of mine. Happiest of birthdays, Laura! So glad I found your blog. Enjoy the weekend with your family!

    Like

  2. Happy Birthday! We’re the same age. I’ll be 70 in September. Annie’s essay is EXACTLY how I feel. I especially loved her saying ” God or Gus”, that was just perfect. Have a wonderful day. Where was the essay published?

    Like

  3. Happy Birthday and Graduation Day. How interesting that your youngest is officially leaving the nest on the same day you were born. I hope it will be a very good year for you. I think, no matter what, it will be.

    Like

    1. It was a very different feeling to say good-bye to our youngest earlier today than it has been in the past. She was “our baby” before, but today we said goodbye to an accomplished, strong young woman we knew could stand on her own two feet. It’s been that way with each of the girls, and our son.

      We’ll be seeing them all at Christmas, but before then it’s on to Mexico and then settling in Nashville. Life is certainly going to stay interesting!

      Like

  4. Happy Birthday Laura! Thank you for sharing that essay. Good advice to remember to keep looking for beauty.

    Like

    1. That essay really struck a cord with me (a friend posted it on Facebook). I am an optimist even though it gets difficult at times and I needed the reminder to keep looking up.

      Like

Comments are closed.