Yesterday was my birthday. I turned sassy sixty-two. That’s a lot of years...and a lot of candles. It got me to thinking: what do all those candles represent?
So let me start with some of the good stuff. I think that’s apt. Thanksgiving, after all, is right around the corner. I’ve never completed a daily gratitude list in November, but if I did, here’s how it would start. The things I’m most grateful for include:
(*) My soul mate. Yes, Rice. He bugs the crud out of me at times. But I’m truly happy we found each other all those years ago and that we’ve been blessed to meld our life journeys.
(*) My adult children and their partners. They get up every morning, continue to fight the good fight, and make me proud. Here’s to them...Daniel and Lauren and their Winston...Quinn and Patrick and the beautiful grandbabies they’ve given Rice and me...Alex and Sierra and the 800 strays and rescues to which they open their hearts and home. Couldn’t love any of you more!
(*) Love. I’m grateful for love that’s unconditional. But I’m also fond of love that’s romantic. Then again, love can be affectionate. Enduring. Familiar. Playful. And let’s not forget self-love. But maybe let’s pass when it comes to obsessive love.
(*) Laughter. Do you remember the song, I Love to Laugh, from the original Mary Poppins movie? Well, being sixty-two, I do. And I get a giggle out of it still because it pretty much nails it. Some people do laugh through their noses. Others honk. Then there are those who hiss or squeak or blast or twitter. (And I don’t mean Twitter as in tweeting.) My favorite part of the song right now: “I love to laugh. It’s getting worse every year.”
(*) Wine. I’m grateful for a dry red with a jammy afterbite. The kind that comes in a box works.
(*) My body. Ironic, I know. I’m not crazy about it, but I am thankful for it, ever since a shopping trip for a bathing suit waaaaay back during my junior high years. It was a painful outing during which I actually cried in the dressing room. Damn me and my freakin’ fat legs! I left the store, lumbering in self-pity, and promptly crossed paths with a man in a wheelchair. He was young with long unkempt hair. His eyes lacked any spark, and his lips turned in a slight snarl. I don’t recall his clothing. There was something way more remarkable about him than what he wore. I tried not to stare but to keep moving and not show any pity—or anger or confusion or grief. Yeah, me and my freakin’ fat legs just kept on walking—yes, walking—with nothing to fret about compared to this Vietnam vet, who’d returned home without any legs, fat, skinny, or in between.
(*) My senses. I fear my vision is worsening, and then there's Rice’s hearing, which is grim. (Sorry, m'man, but you know it's so.) Still, I’m grateful for all the senses I have and what they allow me to experience. There’s not much that compares to hearing squeals of laughter from the grands or feeling the water they splash on us...from a lake, a pool, a tub. Any of those will do. If you’re like me, you love seeing the water-colored change of leaves each autumn and breathing in the crisp air that smells of earth and pinecones and bark. Maybe you, too, enjoy a frothy hot chocolate out by the firepit this time of year. I can almost hear the fire crackle and feel it warm me just thinking about it.
(*) My health. Am I the healthiest 62-year-old around? Oh, hell, no. Do I find it fun to count carbs, give up smoking, cut back on drinking, and get in more exercise? Ha! Do you think I get my jollies from scheduling countless appointments for dental procedures, chiropractic adjustments, thyroid and blood sugar checks, and full body scans to rule out recurring melanoma? Why, no, no, I don’t. But so far, I've been mighty thankful when I've gotten my results. They give the word “negative” such a positive spin. (Knock on wood for more years of negative feedback to come.)
(*) Art. I’m grateful for painting, sculpture, and literature. Architecture, music, and dance. Theater, photography, and films. Anything that pleases the senses and helps people grow their creativity, that’s art in my book.
(*) Nature. I’m not sure I’m thankful for creepy crawly things, and I abhor rodents. Otherwise, I consider myself quite a nature lover, especially in places where the seasons change.
(*) My parents, sibs, and ancestors. I’m grateful for my mom, who stayed strong after being widowed three times. I’m thankful for pictures and sweet stories of the birth dad I never knew, but also for the step-dads who treated me kindly, the siblings—step- and half—who loved my cranky soul, and the ancestors who, in some way, played a part in getting me to who I am today.
(*) Delight. Have you ever seen a child’s face light up while watching a Walt Disney World parade in process? Well, that’s the kind of delight I’m referencing. Sheer delight. Not rehashed, ho-hum, been-there-done-that pleasure. Fresh delight. Maybe vicarious delight? It may be elusive at times, but it’s out there.
(*) Faith. I don’t show or share mine enough, but I’m grateful for the comfort it brings me and the freedoms it represents.
(*) Kindness. I wish people would stop dissing this trait. Kindness is not a weakness, folks.
(*) My home. It’s outdated, in need of repair, and in the freakin’ suburbs. But I love it.
(*) Creature comforts. Does anything compare to reading a good book in front of a cozy fire while wrapped in a fluffy blanket? Unless maybe it’s reading that book to a grand who’s snuggled up beside you?
(*) My work. Yes, I grouse about my work. Yup, I’m ready to retire. Yet I’m grateful that, over the haul, I’ve had the ability to get out of bed every day, report to a place where the people are mostly good, and sit at a desk to crank out work that matters. Grant-seeking’s not for wimps, but it has its rewards. Pun intended.
(*) Technology. I’m thankful when technology works for me, which it does more often than I tend to admit. It’s a love-hate thing, you know.
(*) The sun, the moon, and the stars. Light from the sun promotes health and growth. Softer light from the night heavens promotes rest and rejuvenation and dreams. I’m grateful for all these things.
(*) Good neighbors. Nuff said.
But I have candles of regret as well. Many of them need little explanation. They include:
(*) Not being as good a sister as I’d like to be. I’m bad about staying in touch and always vow I’ll call, or even text or email more. So Heidrich sisters, beware: I’m thinking we should do something like the Ogram sisters and plan a girls’ getaway weekend. Lynne, Susan, Tina, Lisa...anyone in??
(*) Never truly bonding with Rice’s family. No animosity here. Just not the connection you see in all those Hallmark Christmas movies...that have started already...and sometimes make me want to suck on a lemon to chase away all their sweetness. Sometimes.
(*) Not reaching out more to my birth dad’s family. He (Douglas Putnam) died when I was a toddler so I never really knew him. His family--my family—is warm when they reach out. They’ve opened the door. I’ve peaked through and liked what I see, but I still stall at the threshold. Meanwhile time passes. Damned introversion.
(*) Having to wear ugly shoes for the rest of my life. (Screw you, sciatica.)
(*) Not being a better friend.
(*) Not being a better wife.
(*) An occasional bad haircut or color job along the way.
(*) Not recognizing my own value.
(*) Not speaking up more.
(*) Not taking better care of myself when I was younger. (Young people, bend your knees when you lift things.)
(*) Worrying too much.
(*) Making decisions guided by fear rather than inspiration.
(*) Giving up on myself too quickly.
(*) Not being a better mom.
(*) The fact that my head sweats when my adrenaline kicks in. This is not a joke. People fret that I’m ill or nervous. (I’m not.) On top of that, in every freaking picture at any important life event, there I am: the wet rat, center-stage. Even in winter. (A brief P.S. to those tempted to offer advice in an attempt to help: meditation, relaxation, mindfulness, Propranolol...none have eased the situation. Air movement hasn’t hurt. But not everyone enjoys an arctic breeze the way that I do.)
(*) Not being more photogenic. (Only partly due to the wet rat situation outlined above.)
(*) Losing my singing voice after my thyroidectomy.
(*) Being too self-conscious to sing in front of others when I still had a voice. Karma, anyone?
(*) Being too self-conscious, period.
(*) The fact that this part of my candle list was the easiest to complete. (Attention mind: you need to re-set!)
Yet there are also the candles that represent myhopes. Here are some things I most certainly hope:
(*) Not to be a cranky old person.
(*) To discover retirement is as sweet as I’ve anticipated.
(*) To finish my book in progress ... because it can’t seem to finish itself.
(*) To discover that vocal exercises will bring back my singing voice.
(*) To stay curious.
(*) To stay strong enough to bear inevitable sorrows but soft enough not to let them break me.
(*) To grow a splendid vegetable garden.
(*) To have ample resources to keep me comfortable for as long as I have.
(*) To live long enough to see my grandchildren become adults.
(*) To be happy with the 2020 Presidential election outcome.
(*) To nurture my creativity more each year.
(*) To see my adult children and their partners continue to thrive.
(*) To add value (through my presence) to the lives of my family and friends.
(*) To pare down my schtuff before I die (so the kids don’t have to deal with it).
(*) To walk more.
(*) To embrace change. (Because it’s ineviable.)
(*) To travel and share more laughs with Rice.
(*) To seek the good in people and situations.
(*) To remember: wrinkles mean I laughed; grey hair means I cared; scars mean I lived.
(*) And finally...not to haunt Rice’s ass if I die and his second wife is younger and prettier and he buys her a writers’ studio.
Whew! That’s a lot of candles.
If you noticed they only add up to sixty, have no fear. I’ve saved the utter best for last. The twobiggest sparklers on my sixty-second birthday cake would have to be my grands:
(*) Britton and
(*) Charli
Lucky me. All those candles shine mighty and bright. They represent a lot of living and loving. You might be wondering, what more could this gal possibly want out of life? If granted just one wish on my sixty-second birthday, what would it be?
The answer is simple: More, please. My wish is for more of the same.
Cheers! Jan
