This is 52

Worn, weary, and contemplative

Today is my birthday—my 52nd birthday, in fact. I am sitting quietly; the only sounds are my fingertips hitting the keyboard and the dogs sniffing at me, wondering why I am awake so early. Their young mistresses, ages five and six, woke me up with giggles and bouncing on my bed shortly after six a.m., as only those in the prime of youth and all their energy can do. Or maybe it’s because they are excited about cake tonight.

Yesterday would have been my husband’s 52nd birthday. When we met, my mother said, “Lisa, two Scorpios cannot make a happy relationship.” I always liked proving her wrong. (Hi, mom. Sometimes I am right.)

And as I sit here, the sun not yet peeping out from her slumber, the moon still giving the last slivers of light before she darkens completely for the new moon in a few days, I find myself contemplative.

Photo by Sergei Solo on Unsplash

Who am I?

At dinner last night, an amazing meal that included oysters and rabbit pie, I realized I am no longer the same person. Looking around the room at one of my favorite restaurants in the world, drinking my favorite cocktail in the world, I knew without a doubt that I was not the same person and never would be again. Suddenly, that cocktail felt too sweet, and I wished I had ordered a bourbon neat. Something with bite and strong enough to coat my tongue in hints of vanilla and toasted nuts, to remind me that I am alive and awaken this new person.

My friends, the family of my heart, have opened their home to me and I have been staying with them for the last few days. It was a chance to get away and not be alone on my birthday or his.

I was okay all day yesterday until I wasn’t. And I cried—some, not much. The little energy bundles were coming home, and this was something I couldn’t explain to them. But I realize now that I have never truly grieved what it means to have birthdays one day apart. Year one—he had just died. Year two—crutches. This year, I am deep in my feelings, and being at that restaurant, the one we loved, the one I still love, felt different.

It makes me question who I am, my path in the world, and where I go from here. I wish I had words of wisdom and advice for myself, but I don’t.

Photo by Timothy James on Unsplash

As a writer, nothing will ever be perfect. Instead, I focus on good enough. Perfection is the enemy of good enough, and I would never publish anything here if I waited. Throughout history, artists who felt their work wasn’t right would paint over paintings and try to get it just so.

I feel like that canvas. One that has been painted, repainted, covered over, painted again, and tweaked throughout the years. Definitely not museum-ready. I am certainly not in the glow of youth, and I have lived more years on this planet than I have left to walk it. My life has been beautiful, filled with the constants any life has that are joy and pain. I have had experiences that people will never have. And I sit here, surrounded by legos and magic markers, the love in the walls in this home palpable, and wonder if I will experience the richness of life again or if I am destined to walk on this earth, hidden in the shadows — the woman I once was only occasionally seen if the sun shines reflects just the right way.

And so, my birthday wish today, the one I wish for myself and for everyone, is that we all don’t feel quite so lost— that the shadows don’t consume us. No matter how lost we feel, there are people who love us more than we will ever love ourselves, and it’s up to us to accept their love and not question why they would dare to do such a thing. Because love in all of its messiness — that’s the real magic of life.