Hello, everyone, and welcome to my blog, where today I shall express my thoughts about getting older. It doesn’t help to let you know that it’s raining today, but it is, and has been since I got up, so has seeped into my heart; therefore, my writerly disposition.
I have reached that stage where it’s “one more week until
your birthday.” The moment to reflect, if ever there was one, begins when
someone reminds you how much longer it is until you’re older. That’s what
birthdays have always signified to me, and what the rest of the year doesn’t:
having your number change. I’m not saying the other 364 days don’t mean
anything, because they do—but I don’t really think much about those other days.
I was born March 23, 1986 at precisely 2:22AM, according to
my birth certificate. I guess, in a way, this precision has never left me...
unless I was meant to be born at 2:30, but showed up early. Anyway, noticing
the significance of a new year must stem from years back, even before I could
remember. My Daddy said that the Alabama song, “Never Be One Again” used to
make me cry—and that was only when I was nearing two-years-old!
The truth is, most of my life, I have cried about getting
older, watching the sunset sink and the stars come out, and thinking, “Another
day gone.” My favorite poem is Keats’s “When I have Fears that I may cease to be,”
and it has been my favorite for years, which explains why I know the entirety
of the sonnet. Sometimes, I have no way of turning off my brain, which explains why I panic easily. It doesn't help that I know how some of my favorite figures in history found their own deaths, or the fact I often thinking about my dad's dad, who died of cancer in his mid-thirties. I cannot name the times when I've thought about traveling back in time, and finding some way to trade places with my grandfather. Hell, it's depressing to think that my mom's dad held me (he was in a hospital room near mine when I was born), but I can't even remember it!
Christmas’s go, birthdays, normal days—all of them slip
away, and I try to latch onto a small detail from each, with a fear that I’ll
forget something important, which often, to me, means a lesson, simple words,
movements, smiles, laughter, tears, even anger. I want to remember everything,
which is why I’m often the one with a camera, even if some people refuse to
have their picture taken. I don’t mean to interfere; you are beautiful to me, I
want to remember you as you are now... even when I’m old and gray and don’t
remember who you are, or, instead, you are the one in my shoes and I am no
more.
I’m facing 28, though I feel much older, more often than I
care to admit. There is a part of me who knows (without doubt) that I’m where I
want to be. Another part wrestles with the past. I constantly wonder if I
should have chosen a different path than the one I’m on, if I will stay on this
path without being directed down another, etc. etc. I realize these are the questions
of time, with all answers left up to God. After all, He has given me so much
already, including a family who understands me (sometimes more than I do
myself); and a diverse group of friends, ranging from a good, devoted Christian
mother with a laugh that could strike down the darkest mood; to a poetic genius
whose heart is as golden as his words.
I am blessed & will never blog again if it’s raining.
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