Birthday Blues

Generating its own heat, skunk cabbage remains reliably in sync with my calendar expectations.

• Septuagenarian birthdays are naturally contradictory.  As I enter 72, I am extremely grateful for all that I have, my health, my stability, my family, my history, an infinite list of blessings on the scroll of life.  Yet each year, sometimes subtly, sometimes with loud gongs, I am less than I was.  I have never been one to pretend, and today I am much less energetic and focused than even a short decade ago.
• People tell me not to worry about it.  After all, most of our political leaders, many of our industrial leaders, a lot of our cultural leaders are my age.  Aren’t they doing just fine.  Well, no, actually.  A culture headed by geriatrics frightens me. 

Tiny bits of green grace this hidden woodland, otherwise a wintry view.

• I am in most ways more free than I have ever been.  My responsibilities have grown up and moved into their own lives, my only ambitions for our house is that it not fall down on us for a decade or so.  I spend time sitting, and talking, and puttering around, and am very happy.
• But I am going nowhere.  I am as free as a tree rather than as a bird.  Nothing wrong with contemplation and remembrance and gratitude, I tell myself.  Even if I am doing those things more because I tire easily and ache afterwards than for any noble reason. 

Pussy willows have moved right along their inexorable path, unnoticed by rushing traffic.

• Well, the adage goes, consider the alternatives.  Oh, I do.  Because they loom over the next day, or next month, or next season, or next birthday.  It is hard to escape wondering if each twinge or momentary pang is not a signifier of something worse.  Over 70, I think a lot of people become natural hypochondriacs, often with reason.
• Spring cures a lot.  At least for a while everything is full of energy and beauty and it is easy to feel rejuvenated with the rest of nature.  Having a birthday near the beginning of April is nice.  All I need to learn is to simply accept cycles and changes as do the daffodils and crocuses and arriving robins, and frolicking squirrels.  Just another bit of life on a magnificent planet.