I celebrated my birthday this past weekend. Having a special day once a year where people are more or less required to be extra nice to you is always something to look forward to. However, as we age, birthdays can also bring a lot of mixed emotions.
I admit that ever since I turned forty
I have vacillated between freaking out over how old I am and
delighting in my own maturity. On the one hand, it seems like just
yesterday that I was a fifteen year old girl and on the other hand, I
am amazed that girl has managed to come this far and learn so much.
I like my forty something self a lot and I
think that fifteen year old girl would too. In fact, when I start
worrying that I haven't experienced or accomplished enough in my
life, I often think of that girl. I imagine that I visit her in her
small bedroom with the graffiti covered walls and I tell her all
about the life we have now. She is genuinely impressed when I
describe her future home and garden to her and she is relieved that
we finally figure out what we want to be when we grow up.
Her most urgent question for me is, “Do
we marry a rock star?”.
“Not exactly,” I say and then I
describe Hippie to her. She agrees with me that he is a rock star,
in his own way.
I wish I could warn her about all the
mistakes and heartaches waiting for her but then I remember what
gifts those experiences ultimately turned out to be. I want to tell her everything I have learned but I realize she already
has that knowledge inside her. It will just take those painful
experiences, and lots of joyful ones too, to bring it out in her.
“You're going to be okay,” I say to
her and to myself, “you already have everything you need to be
really happy.”
I don't think she believes me but I
wholeheartedly do, and that is how I know I have really grown up.
