Birthday
Today I’m thirty-five. I suppose that I’ve lived about half of my life.
I’d like to say that I’m a writer, but in reality I’m a housekeeper and a nanny. I muddle through these things, but I don’t have a gift for them. There are days, many days, when my head feels like a bowl of cold oatmeal. I try to stir my thoughts and they stick to the spoon.
I’ve made some big mistakes in my life. Not colorful, pyrotechnic mistakes, not firework mistakes that burst suddenly and then fade in a glitter of reminiscence and good old stories. I’m too careful for that. I make mistakes like cracks in a foundation stone: subtle, thoughtful mistakes, that ramify invisibly year in and year out. Most of the time you scarcely notice the whole edifice shifting above them, but one day you get a good, long view and you realize that it’ll never sit quite right.
I’ve also been very lucky. If I haven’t always been allowed to exercise my strengths, I’ve seldom had to suffer for my weaknesses. I’m comfortable. I have people who love me. Always a yeoman pilot when it comes to the coasts and harbors of life, I’ve steered clear of trouble. Perhaps I’ve done that too much. It’s hard to say.
I’m in a better place now than I was a couple of years ago. I love my family, even Danaan, who is not always easy to love. I’ve had a whiff of the life I want, which is more than most people can say. I’m gifted in several respects. I have treasures, and a legitimate future to look forward to.
It’s a bright, cool day; the fresh asphalt shines like oil and the roses are a godawful mess. Oh, and I’m still reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, because I’m a stubborn cuss and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave any book unread just because it’s obstreperous.
That’s about it, from here, at thirty-five.
I’d like to say that I’m a writer, but in reality I’m a housekeeper and a nanny. I muddle through these things, but I don’t have a gift for them. There are days, many days, when my head feels like a bowl of cold oatmeal. I try to stir my thoughts and they stick to the spoon.
I’ve made some big mistakes in my life. Not colorful, pyrotechnic mistakes, not firework mistakes that burst suddenly and then fade in a glitter of reminiscence and good old stories. I’m too careful for that. I make mistakes like cracks in a foundation stone: subtle, thoughtful mistakes, that ramify invisibly year in and year out. Most of the time you scarcely notice the whole edifice shifting above them, but one day you get a good, long view and you realize that it’ll never sit quite right.
I’ve also been very lucky. If I haven’t always been allowed to exercise my strengths, I’ve seldom had to suffer for my weaknesses. I’m comfortable. I have people who love me. Always a yeoman pilot when it comes to the coasts and harbors of life, I’ve steered clear of trouble. Perhaps I’ve done that too much. It’s hard to say.
I’m in a better place now than I was a couple of years ago. I love my family, even Danaan, who is not always easy to love. I’ve had a whiff of the life I want, which is more than most people can say. I’m gifted in several respects. I have treasures, and a legitimate future to look forward to.
It’s a bright, cool day; the fresh asphalt shines like oil and the roses are a godawful mess. Oh, and I’m still reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, because I’m a stubborn cuss and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave any book unread just because it’s obstreperous.
That’s about it, from here, at thirty-five.