All That We Let In

I turned 29 last week.  Now, the actual adding a year to my life doesn’t bother me.  Check back next year on that account …

The funk sneaks up on me.  Has for three birthdays now.  I’m slow to learn, I guess.  I think that subconsciously I hope to see my dad pull up to wish me happy birthday … or to call to say how proud he is of me.  It isn’t like I actually believe those options are possible.  He’s dead, thank you very much.  I just don’t think my soul has accepted this truth in its entirety yet.

Two years ago, I had emptied my life of much of the outside joy I enjoyed absorbing : listening to music, reading, dancing, singing, writing …  Those essential elements have gradually made their way back into my being, but they seem to always get lost around my birthday.  I become a mocus mess and it is only by the love of my husband that I find my footing, turn on some music, and dance with my kids.  

My birthday should be my opportunity to spend the day thanking the two people who gave me life.  I guess when this day approaches, I sometimes wish I could share my thanks with two living, breathing individuals.  Thanking my mom seems half-done.  Mission half-accomplished.  Such a raw feeling. 

And then the fog starts to lift.  And I can compose this, send it out into the ether, and know that the haze will be even less dense tomorrow.