I was going to blog the obvious about my birthday yesterday, that 51 is a true anti-climax. Turning 50 last year was a delight, surrounded by my friends in town and again out on the edge of wilderness. This year, eh. There’s a reason you don’t know any songs or poems celebrating 51. Such a small step towards the second half of a century, just a drop accreting to the 50 already gone.
But I like having birthdays, and not just because it beats the alternative. Between us, I revel in being the center of attention; better, the center of ritual. It’s my day, damn it, and I want everyone to enjoy it.
And so I am blessed to have friends far and near who remember my day even though I so often forget theirs. Friends who know they should ignore my oft professed need for solitude, which is really just my defense against the drain of energy required to really be present for others. Good friends who bring me food, cake and cigars and send me email, books, CDs and cards. I no longer wonder what I did to deserve such friends — I know I couldn’t have done anything to be so lucky. peace, mjh
And so I am blessed to have friends far and near who remember my day even though I so often forget theirs. Friends who know they should ignore my oft professed need for solitude, which is really just my defense against the drain of energy required to really be present for others. Good friends who bring me food, cake and cigars and send me email, books, CDs and cards. I no longer wonder what I did to deserve such friends — I know I couldn’t have done anything to be so lucky. peace, mjh