“Strange things happen on your birthday, so you have to stay supple. My mother in her old age grew dismissive of holidays of any sort and birthdays especially, she eyed with distain. It’s been hard not to follow her cue. However, frivolity is somewhere buried in my nature, probably from my father’s side. Before I was born, he was reputedly a top-notch partier, and on top of that, the life of the party. Perhaps a self-appointed position, but, none-the-less, a formidable one. I could never match his unabashed ease at grabbing center stage. Maybe I’m a bit proud of his shamelessness, I don’t know. As much as I’m my mother’s daughter, rather British & a creature of self-restraint, I admit I’ve harbored dreams of walking onto a bigger stage. Either way, it’s my own life I must walk, and my place of comfort is here, nestled in the forest, following pathways hardly recognizable, even to myself. Getting lost for days in a swirl of thoughts, and emotions, is enough excitement, mostly. Being aware of what needs to be done, is a full time job, an intuitive one, not really aimed at social climbing. I’m required to stay tuned to things like warmth, and care, and creative freedom, and children. There is a door for every direction, but not every door, on any given day, needs to be opened. This morning I opened the door to the East immediately, in search wood, and weather. The shed could be swept of bark, & shoveled, where the snow still blows in. But dawn is a tricky time, a buffer. We don’t really have to act immediately, before the sun. Not usually. A glance to the mountain, to the neighbor’s roof, to the crisp lines of new ice, and animal tracks, is enough. A few big breaths of frigid air into the lungs, a glance at the thermometer. There’s still time, for doing nothing, for coffee, for pause. And for noticing anything new, or amiss, or changed in the yard. I’m not sure that I saw it right away. No, I’m sure I didn’t. You don’t see what you don’t expect, for one innocent moment while the usual sights persist in their imprint. No, the jar of Jiff peanut butter, jumbo-sized, did not initially compute; the box of Ritz, with a hint of salt. Likely, I was routinely trying to position too many pieces of fire wood onto my hip, with an extra log in the other hand, my old gloves slipping, then gripping somewhat frantically, half-awake. This modern version of product placement in my wood shed was yet to compute. So, I stopped for a moment, to recalculate. Yes, it was peanut butter, coupled with an old-school vehicle, for consumption. Time warps at such a sight. Taking me back to the 1980s, I admit, to when I was a fledgling Vermonter. And to my roommate at the time, a singular individual known for crushing whole sleeves of crackers into bowls of soup that we would eat together, what we called dinner, given our circumstances. Well, stoking the fire was first in line, but I quickly returned to this mysterious shrine from my past, and cautiously, examined each item. The jar of Jiff was not completely frozen, which gave me a general time-line as to when it might have been delivered. Birthdays are sometimes over-rated, sometimes under. At my stage of life, I am willing to give over my imagination to the vagaries of the unknown. I don’t really care how old I am. What seems to bother everyone is how old they appear. No one feels old, unless they think they are being perceived as such. That, alone, is the disappointment. The beautiful unfolding of any day is worthy, as proof of having survived. Which is more to the point. We have survived. If you are reading this, you have survived. Some have gone before you, and some will linger on, beyond your stay. In the end we are all immortal. As sure as the messaging of “Ritz” could tell you: we are meant to live amongst the highest, most prestigious order of hotel guests, in airy castle turrets of golden light. Ordinary life is riveted together with such useful tidbits of information. The solstice is no slouch. It’s our light, our emergence from darkness, our “Ritz”. I went on with my day, slightly glowing, as ever, tinged with an overtone of wistful longing, for who we truly are.”
