My sister, Beth, called the day after my birthday. No, she hadn’t forgotten. She asked if I felt better.
After all, I’d spent my birthday in bed. But not how you might think.
My head pounded and lolled, a leftover from the case of the stomach flu, as we chatted about birthdays. She’s a January babe too yet didn’t plan to mark it any special way. Me, on the other hand, had canceled one set of plans, and was clearly destined to halt the festivities for another if Fate didn’t intervene soon. It was odd she wasn’t a birthday-er since we were raised in a family where birthdays occurred in January and April. How convenient for my mother to lump presents and cakes into one of two months. I didn’t find reasons to celebrate birthdays. Often, they found me.
My birthday, January 22nd, sometimes coincided with the Super Bowl, as well as the birthday of two friends, a set of twins, Monica and Jeanne, who I became closer to in high school. We joked how our mothers were on the operating table together.
In college, the passage of time was marked by ski slopes and hot apple pie aperitifs, while looking out at the Rockies. Conveniently, our college ski club traveled West each year, during the week prior to the start of the new semester, which coincided with—my birthday. A round of Harry Buffalos for all!
On the night of my 26th birthday, following a surprise birthday party my older sister, Laura, had planned, the young man who would become my first husband and I made out on my couch. Two years later, we married. With other friends and family that also celebrated January birthdays, I planned birthday bowling parties, happy hours, and for my 35th birthday, after Devin died, I rush out the door for Birthday Girls’ Night Out.
At the time, I didn’t understand seasonal affectedness disorder, but whenever I called girlfriends with said plans, no one ever said “no.” Despite my love for the cold and snow, I really needed people, and people needed me. Or at least a reason to get out. Marking time later as a single mom, I planned my own birthday, lest I wound up with another round of Fruit Loops in pudding in bed, thanks to the kid. By the time I married Mark, we skied during my birthday week in Utah for three or four years. Afterall, skiing went hand in hand with my birth month. January = skiing= what I did for my birthday.
This year, ennui hit hard following a cancelled Christmas from Covid. I languished. In the past year, I had pushed toward the completion of one book, now in anyone else’s hands but mine. My writing output was the same, but the floodgates to creativity had been shut.
Then my birthday arrived. And instead of birthday treats, I ate a rice cake instead.
In fairness, a lovely family meetup the weekend prior, brought together two of our kids, a son-in-law and our granddaughter and produced an Oreo frosting cake, dairy-free so granddaughter Nora could eat it too.
By Tuesday following my birthday, I rallied and joined a few friends for dinner although my stomach could not process more than a half a glass of natural wine. Yet the ennui remained, whether through weakness in my body—or in soul.
Two days later, fog tiptoed across the morning. On a walk, I turned on a podcast with Dr. Vivek Murthy and Dr. Lisa Miller as they discussed why our younger generations are more challenged by depression, and why we don’t pay enough attention to our spiritual life. In the fog that could have been London or Oregon. I leaped forward into that cloudy padded room with my own god, Universe, Mother, at my side to listen for myself again.
The fog walk produced many a photo, but mostly a warmth I wrapped myself in. I moved with ease and freedom from hats, gloves, and the weariness that had settled in my bones. The body wanted to be in nature. I practiced a simple meditative exercise, watching the river pick its own way through the fog. Unable to see the water, I imagined those unseen currents were how much I had been loved.
All those birthday celebrations over the years weren’t for the adulation or the gifts. It was for the council of love, councils I didn’t want to lose. This surrounding ourselves with a love as tight as a mother’s, even when our mothers are dead.
Several years ago, one of my birthday cohorts invited me to celebrate our birthdays with facials. Vanity crept over me. Did I want to hear the assessment of my aging visage, of a sunspot here, a little trench in the smile lines there, as if my smiles were battle-tested? They were. That dewy freshness only lasted a while, but the act of belief in something deeper than my face or skin stayed with me.
When I showered after my walk, I experienced a Lazarus rising moment. Slowly, my hands kneaded lotion into concave cheeks. I watched in the mirror as the potions smoothed out some hydration lines. Mirrors are the bane of my existence. When one comes into view, I usually avoid all glances. Theories abound on why I do this: Dad yelling at Mom for taking too much time to get ready, my older sister who “primped” too much, a first husband who said, “I’ll be in the Car” while I was still brushing my hair, and my own rush through life. All taught me to spend less time in front of the mirror.
The gaze went inward as a writer, and I never looked up after that.
The Persians first imported the mirrors they discovered on their travels to Europe. Unfortunately, those metallic windows into themselves often shattered upon their return trips, and the Persians began to create art out of the shiny shards. This process is known as Āina-kāri, and one sees these artful patterns in mosaics over doorways and walls across many Middle Eastern countries. One also sees it in birthdays that appear broken on the surface, through flu or ennui, but transform a birthday celebration into a council of love, and artwork into a homage to life.
NEW and On-going - Last Chance for this month!
Pauletta Hansel and I are pleased to announce two of our FREE Caring for the Caregiver writing experiences will be IN PERSON. We know this is important to many of our participants, so we are happy to offer this in partnership with Giving Voice Foundation and Jewish Family Services.
Our first date is Feb. 9th, 10-noon in partnership with Jewish Family Services Adult Day program, and August 9th, 10-noon. Watch this space, or visit givingvoicefdn.org soon to register.
Our FREE, VIRTUAL writing experiences for caregivers will continue through Much More than a Meal and Giving Voice. Tentative dates of May 7 and November 14, 10-noon. Forthcoming details will also found at givingvoicefdn.org soon.
Saturday, February 10th.
Contemporary Arts Center. Part of their ongoing Creative Writing Project series with regional workshop leaders providing prompts to align with the current exhibit. Visit cac.org to learn more.
This Spring
New writings in Edible Ohio Valley about Mean Mr. Mustard and some goats. Also, new work appearing in Italian American. Italian Americans wax poetically about Sunday Dinner. In our house, we savored Sunday Brunch. You will too.