The matterings of life

Today is my birthday.

I am 32.
Wait. (Papers rustling.)
Oh, right. (chuckles.)
I read the Birth Certificate wrong.
Ahem... I'm 25.

Anyway, it's my birthday, and I don't know what you do for your birthday, but every year is different for me. For the past few years, I've enjoyed my once-a-year club crawl while only feeling a smidge older than the usual 18-21 crowd, shaking what my momma gave me, and drinking till I puked just to prove I could. And, yes, I always regretted it in the morning. This year, not so much. And not because I feel older. I'm not sure "older" will ever enter my feelings file. I think I'll always feel like a twenty-three year old with the delightfully obnoxious immaturity of a tween.

This year, I'm doing the quiet thing. Where the friends gather, we hover in a tight circle around the cake, my eyes tear as I breathe in their love for me, and just before the candle inferno becomes a billowing tuft of smoke, I make the wish.

This wish is usually selfish, a me wish. And even though - you may have noticed - I tend toward the emotional, I can still be pretty selfish. I've long ago given up trying to change myself, and I'm okay with it. If you're a writer, too, then you understand what a lonely process it can be. Stuffing yourself away for hours, sometimes days at a time, neglecting what really matters in our lives - the people. And, I guess, even if no other life lessons have bit me in the butt, I'm starting to realize just how BIG this one is.

I've always been a family girl. Growing up in a gargantuan family is no easy feat. It's noisy, messy, unorganized, but crazy fun and, hopefully, so full of love you don't know what to do with it all. I've known this forever, but it doesn't mean that I appreciate it all the time. But, for some stupid life-questioning reason, the "older" I get, the more I begin to think that though my life is full of all these crazy wonderful possibilities, opportunities, goals, and dreams, it's all truly about the people. I can think deep thoughts for the rest of my life, wonder endlessly about my purpose, write ten thousand books, read ten times as many, but if  I don't have the people, all of those pretty thoughts, goals, and dreams become null and void.

So, tonight I'll enjoy my rump-shaking hiatus, make my me wish, but most importantly, soak up the blinks of time I get to spend with ones I love. And in honor of my Rockin' Awesome B-Day, and since I've been reading the ever-deep and profound Mr. Nepo, I'm including another quote from Awakening:

Singing from the peak isn't quite the same as whispering in the center of a circle that has carried you ashore. Honest friends are doorways to our souls, and loving friends are the grasses that soften the world. It is no mistake that the German root of the word friendship means "place of high safety"... There can be no greater or simpler ambition than to be a friend.

 

Accomplishments: What if I don’t…?

 That big fat scary word has been on my mind lately. Accomplishments - also known as success. It arrives in my thoughts with such grandeur that it requires a perimeter of lights and mental jazz hands. There’s an oomph to the way it sounds, a kind of graceful bluntness. It’s big and it means big things. It brings glory and victory and leap-for-joy moments of happiness that are gone sometimes before the champagne bottle is even uncorked.

To say that I’ve struggled with this word is a severe understatement. This word has branded my life. As a Type A personality, I feel like I walk around with a tallied list tattooed to my forehead.

What have I done in this life worth anything and was it enough? Have I jumped high enough, ran fast enough, bruised my butt enough times just to prove to myself that I can keep getting up?

Of course, it’s impossible to talk Accomplishments without the addition of its gossipy, evil counterpart: FAILURE. And it seems like half of my accomplishments turn into failure simply because they didn’t turn out the way I first envisioned.

An example of this would be Motherhood.

I remember being pregnant and rubbing my belly shiny while lovingly whispering all my hopes and dreams to the wriggling body inside of me. Even nearing thirty, my naiveté rivaled someone from “16 And Pregnant”. Once that screaming, gooey, writhing thing popped out, those hopes and dreams got sucked into vacuum cleaners, absorbed into puke rags, and wrapped up in 10+ dirty diapers a day. All of my happy ideas of letting my child roam the wheat fields (not literally), carefree and content, were swept under the rug of teaching him not to bite me – or other people. Every single day of motherhood is stacked with success and failure all intertwined into one drooly, tantrum-throwing package. But what will I really remember when I look back on this experience?

Our adventures. His smiles. Favorite books. Little quirks that set him apart from other kids. The timbre of his laugh. The heart-tugging pitch of his voice. The pure joy of just simply looking at him and thinking, “Damn, he’s perfect.”

Years from now, I won’t really remember all the diapers, or the sleepless nights… Okay, yeah I will. Because I never forget. Never. But that’s still not the stuff that’s gonna matter. 

And neither will all these little nomadic periods of my life where I feel like I’m floating and not accomplishing anything.

I have to keep telling myself: It’s okay if the finish line looks a little different or is a little farther off than I originally hoped. It’s okay if I don’t read 100,000,000,000,000 books this year. It’s OKAY if I don’t write a novel this year.

Live in the present, Megan!

Step outside, inhale the smog-filled air for the pure joy of it. Take in a sunset once in a while. Watch a movie without fidgeting thirty times a minute wondering what you really should be doing instead of sitting on the couch like you have Restless Leg Syndrome.

IT’S  O-KAY.

The finish line is there. I just can’t see it yet. And maybe when I get there, there won’t be cascades of streamers or flashing lights or gobs of people cheering me on, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t GET THERE!

Because when I do GET THERE, Oh baby, it’s gonna be beautiful. Even if it’s just my husband and a high five. I’m going to enjoy the moment, suck in the pressing excitement of what I’ve done, then go out and watch a sunset. Or a movie. (Sitting still is optional.)

Which one are YOU?

 

Me - second row back, third from the left...

As the eccentric and torturously deep person that I am, I often wonder about our Uniqueness VS. Likeness. Our intrinsic internal desire to not only stand out, but also to look like everyone else. It’s interesting how we all start off the same way – naked and hungry, with only the basic needs on the brain. Then we grow into kids and we begin to watch.

Struggles against conformity and the detrimental desire for beauty and trend obsession are not new, but how do we get there? And why do we always want both?

We want to be a size two, but – WAIT – now we gotta have the curves to go with it. We want to be skinny with giant rear ends. We want to wear trendy clothes that go out of style in 7.5 seconds. We want to have a baby and a post-delivery tummy tuck to go with it. I’m surprised doctors don’t offer this as a package deal now (because I would’ve signed on the dot, not ashamed to admit that).

I’m not faulting anyone for wanting these things. I’m just trying to get to the root of  

WHY IT MATTERS!

Which brings me to: What do you think God sees when He looks at us?

 I’m not trying to be preachy by mentioning God – I’m a God-girl, just can’t help it. But I do wonder about these things. I think we all do.

Do you really think God looks down at us and expects to see THIS?

                          Um, no.

        

I think He sees the ducks. Regardless of what we look like to each other, to Him we’re a huddle of fluff just begging to be scooped up and cuddled, feathers to the cheek. All different, but, in the end, all the same.

I’m not saying we’re never going to procedure ourselves or want these things. It is the unfortunate state of the world we live in, and the expectations brought on us as women. (And men.)

Sometimes, I just hate that we have to care.

Thoughts?