saying hell yes to my forties
Yesterday, I woke up to a new decade.
I'm in my forties now.
It seemed surreal, except not. Not at all. 40 is real. 40 is my right now. 40 is right.
This is my moment. I am shining. I have lived - and continue living - all my years, fully. This is my time.
("It's our time, down here!" Yes, I shall probably continue making Goonies references all my days. That's part of the zeitgeist of my age.)
This is me.
Forty years (and one day) old.
And oh my gawd, it's so awesome, being 40.
(Since I was born on the 4th, 4 has always been my lucky number. So hell yeah, 40 seems lucky!)
And life keeps going. Sore throats don't take time out for birthdays. (I've had a sore throat since last weekend and it got way worse yesterday. Today it is still pretty sore, but yesterday was the apex.) The world still isn't perfect. Racism keeps being racist. Injustice keeps being injust. I keep working to heal the world, to heal myself. I keep on being human.
A birthday is a nice reminder of the blessing that is life. Of time, moving forward. Of life being lived. Of overcoming the odds of our existential fragility and continuing to breathe.
(My grief pours out of me for those who could not keep breathing. For those who won't be celebrating any more birthdays. Grief and love, ever intwined. Grief is love. Please keep standing with the people of Ferguson, with the families of our sisters and brothers of color who have been murdered unjustly. We must keep working towards a day when all people will be safe from violence. Keep working towards peace. Keep working towards equality.)
And a birthday is just a day. An awesome day, just like every other awesome day. Or a shitty day, just like any shitty day. A day is what it is. (And we make it what it is, mostly. Though sometimes, grief knocks us flat on our asses. Many things are beyond our control.)
But forty years and one day ago, my mom was made a mother and my dad, a father. And I was born, a human. My oh-so-fragile body took its first breath. My inner strength manifested (my first apgar is reported to have been a 2, which may be the closest I've ever been to dying).
Forty years and one day ago, my time here began.
And I'm still here. I'm going to keep making that time count.
(Until I can't. And then, I'm hoping my memory will be a blessing.)
Yes, this is my life and I'm hella living it full stop, balls to the wall, out loud and proud.
Every day til the day I die.