The 93rd Anniversary of Myself

Don’t make a fuss. It’s only a number. Furthermore, if mindless men in red states prevail, we will suddenly become nine months older than we thought we were. Happy fetus.

I have no memory of my day of birth. (It was 2 days after Philip Roth's and 9 days after Ruth Bader Ginsberg). I expect I was very busy that day taking my first breath and missing my umbilical time as a fish-like substance. Reports had reached me that Hitler was on the rise and I was to fear nothing but fear itself. The thought of eating apple sauce out of a Dust Bowl was not appealing at all.

Birthdays are a floating number. I contain each of my ninety-three years, some a bit more than others. The chronology doesn’t always behave. At age nineteen I was thirty-two and at forty-eight I was finally nineteen. My preference now is to be of no age which is to say, every age.

Here's what I have come to know. The best times are those outside of time when hours fly by unrecorded. Creativity and loving defy all measures of the calendar or clock. 

Being born on the equinox has endowed me with an even temperament. I hear Jung shaking his head that I must be repressing my shadow side. If my animus against all Trump-like substances isn't enough, maybe I am harboring some deviltry myself. It is true that I hate feta cheese and I've been known not to squeeze the tube of toothpaste from the bottom. 

In astrological terms I'm told I was born on the cusp of Pisces and Aries to which I say gurgle and bah.

As for infirmities, I can't think of anything more boring to talk about. So, I won't. I never realized how many body parts I have. Such a mechanism.

Did I ever tell you about the time I… Yes, you did, now be quiet. When all my stories have been told and shamelessly embellished it may be time to look out the window and marvel at this bush I have scrupulously overlooked now bursting with clusters of rhododendrons or that stump on my favorite tree, the result of overzealous pruning. The coral tree will soon be lit by red candles which I shall not blow out.

If I am running out of breath, I'm not yet running out of breadth. The imaginary candles I am blowing out on my imaginary cake do not signify the snuffing out of enlightenment. 

As a blogger I babble along with the proverbial brook though now and then I feel more aligned with the hush of it all. I have already told the world what to do and did they listen? No, they did not. Celebration feels unseemly as long as new wastelands are being created every day by unconscionable acts.

I have now lived almost as long as Poe, Keats and Plath combined, proving there is no divine plan in the allotment of years. My footprint barely registers but perhaps it’s okay not to succeed as long as one does it with an open heart. Born as I was on the first day of spring, I'd like to think I sprouted with the wildflowers.

Peggy died about 4 1/2 years ago. During my widowhood I have been blessed with a circle of loving friends. In her 100th year Peggy told me to go for it; and so I have. One woman, Adele, has become my late in life love. To be fully met in a caring and sharing relationship has added a needed dimension and joy to my daily life. My feet are on the ground but always at the ready for buoyancy.

I'm taking comfort in the words of A.K. Ramanujan, You can count all the oranges on a tree but never all the trees in a single orange. Who knows what juice still remains under the rind?