In less than an hour, I'll be one year older.
In most ways, this means nothing to me. I don't put much weight on age as I have a hard time seeing the point. What significance does a number have on identity? On wisdom gathered? On anything else that really matters?
My closest friends share a lot of similar traits—they're well read, deep thinkers, and, for the most part, on the path less travelled. But one thing they don't share is age. Not even close. They span decades, in fact. From early 20s to mid 50s.
And then there's my exception of a friend who is in his 70s—I refer to him as my "Paris Grandpa," because I found him in a bookstore over there. We connected over the admiration of French essayist Roland Barthes, our appreciation for his A Lover's Discourse, and the dislike of philosopher Derrida, and his horribly jargon'd work.
Honestly, I think, if I have any "fear" of getting older, it's not truly my own. I can feel it when I say it. Like, there are times where I hear myself say things like, "Yes, well, there's not much time left. Must do X before Y." And I can feel intuitively that I don't really believe that. That these words are pulled from a can, if you will.
(Of course, there is truth when it comes to things like conception and childbirth. But my real, genuine opinion on all that is that there isn't a rush. What I really feel is that all that will come if it's meant to. And if my body does age prematurely to the moment I'm in the situation I'd like to be in when I have a family, then I have absolutely no issue with adoption. People tend to look sideways at me when I say that, but I couldn't mean it more. There are plenty of children on this planet. What a gift to give one love and a home.)
There is one thing that is triggered though when years collapse one onto the other. And that is reflection. I love this part. All writers must. This is what we live for... the extended opportunity to walk around in our own minds and smell every rose around the corner.
On this note, a lot comes up. It's been a full year. The Play House finished and, so I've been told, is almost designed now, interior-wise. That is wild! Soon I'll get to see my baby's pages, and it'll begin to feel real, as my publisher has promised.
And I've learned a ton. Most recently about how to expertly manage my own sales as a freelancer, which has given me a surge of self-confidence in my business, and that is so gratifying. To know that I have my life so cradled in my own capable hands is the definition of empowering. I thank Ray & Sean for that, the two wizards that entered my life by way of business this Spring.
My heart has been put through the ringer, twice. And I've also learned to gracefully tend to that. For me, that's meant identifying the fine line between not sulking and not pushing too hard so as to bury the pain. My other half, Carina, has played a large role here, and I'll be forever grateful to her for all her emotional support. Plus, my close group of friends. I love you guys. You know who you are. Thank you, thank you.
In retrospect I wish I'd culled more space for experimenting with my art. I've been recently inspired by my poet friends: Chris, Bryce, Lea and Michelle. They embody the term "artist" like no other, and I am so grateful for their presence in my life. (Even when I'm distant and horrible to reply. Bare with me, guys. Muchos love to you.)
Going into my new year then, my year of 27, I will promise to myself more space for playing with words, more space for exploration of artists across the board–writers, painters, illustrators, etc.
I'm sure there's much more to say, but frankly it's 11:18PM and I'm just realizing I forgot to have dinner. So, this is it for now.
Goodnight my loves. xo