In fifty days, I will turn fifty.
Let me just say that I loved my forties. I still feel like I belong in my forties. Warm and comfortable, cloaked around me, forty-nine is a good fit. I’m not ready to shed it, to stand shivering at the threshold of a new decade.
Fifty does not sound natural to me, not at all. It sounds like an age someone else turns. I’d rather not claim that birthday, thank you anyway.
But of course there’s no choice. So rather than arriving at my fiftieth year with my heels dug in tight, I’ve got to prove to myself it doesn’t have to suck, not even a little.
It can be graceful and powerful.
It can in fact, be even better than forty-nine.
I know it’s up to me to make that so.
I know the best antidote to aging is just to keep getting better. Live better, eat better, do better, and feel better.
Do our best.
Shed the layers.
Another birthday reminds me that there is no more time to waste.
I will not watch the video of Horambe the gorilla again, in horror.
Nor will I watch another interview of Trump, with equal horror.
Or spend energy loathing anything that I cannot control.
Or generally waste copious amounts of time.
I will not accumulate unnecessary stuff.
I don’t have room for any of that, in my mental or physical space.
I’ve got stuff to do.
Words to write. Things to say. People to love.
Yesterday I went through our book shelves and finally parted with all of the books from my children’s adolescence.
Then I organized my writing books and afterwards claimed a spare room, tucked away in our basement.
I wasn’t sure how this new space would feel, because I‘ve gotten used to writing in our dining room. I can see out the window there; an animal, a neighbor, the school bus stopping across the street. I see when the mail arrives and when someone is coming to the door. If someone else is home, I see them, hear them, and engage in conversation. My dog meanders over to his food, my husband makes his lunch.
It feels different in this new room, something like meditation, when I settle in. I don’t hear any sounds other than the humming of a dehumidifier. I see nothing in front of me but my words.
Seclusion is like a carpet laid out for my thoughts, an easy place to fall.
It is uncensored by the density of movement or noise.
Inviting to the soul.
It feels right.
And maybe that’s what will happen with turning fifty.
Maybe it will just feel right.
Yesterday’s post: https://musingsimplicity.wordpress.com/2016/06/07/love-and-choices/