This is my last night in my fifties. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I will officially be 60 years old. I say officially because a calendar somewhere says that my body has reached a certain age. I think, however, that we are like trees—forever young on the inside where fluids travel up and down, where the flesh is always soft and white, and where the core remains untouched by wind and sun. On the outside, though, we appear to grow more stately, our bark a little thicker and darker and our limbs a little less flexible.
We had a wonderful party last night with people I love all around me, a beautiful fire, delicious food, and so much laughter. It was the perfect send-off to the fifties.
For some reason I keep seeing across the decades and spying on a little blonde, tow-headed tomboy who loved to climb trees, run through the woods, gather berries, dive into frigid water, make chains out of horsetails, and read books—lots of books. She seems so young and innocent to me. She not once thought about who she would be when she was sixty. She was just so full of the now. Everything around her seemed large and uncertain. I remember she had a tender heart and liked to think big thoughts even then.
I remember a Richard Bach book (Bridge Across Forever) where he gets to travel back and meet a younger version of himself. I don’t even remember what he hoped to accomplish—it was the idea of it that intrigued me. In reality, we are always time traveling—selectively remembering, selectively forgetting, but always twisting whatever we discover back into the current moment like an expert weaver.
I have no wise words tonight. Maybe that is what will come to me in my sixties, although I often feel more and more like that little girl. I love to be outside. I want the wind in my hair, the dirt beneath my nails, and my body next to the earth.
Peace to all.