Week One
Sitting where I am, looking out at the backyard with its ditties of flowers all in riotous song and bloom, I cannot help but be struck by the fact that I am letting a birthday come and make itself known. Generally speaking, it has been my habit to avoid my birthday, to eschew celebrations. I think if I could talk to my sixteen year old self, she would find the current Van terribly old, but the Van of 2023 is thinking that it has been twenty-five years since she nearly died and perhaps thirty is not so old after all (I do believe that as you get older, age seems younger and younger).
I have friends who celebrate their birthdays all month long, which is lovely, but last year I went to Eyemart Express for new glasses. I thought about getting my blood work done today, but a mature part of me shamed the other, more rebellious part of me and said that the appointment could be done a day early. What would I do to celebrate something that I have shied away from for so long? Tonight, I will have Persian food, and my mother and KK are joining me in a movie marathon, something quiet. I will scribble some inanities in my journal, enjoy the beautiful flowers Kelly and Paige bought me, read The Call of the Wild again, review Arabic plurals, and toss some words on the page for my short story.
I was born on a Wednesday, at 2:45 in the morning. KK was born at 2:54 in the morning. This strange swap and swill of numbers has followed us throughout our lives, a sort of yin and yang. And Lulu celebrated her big number birthday in April. My sisters are literally my other half, the part of me that I try to remember today because I don’t particularly want my birthday to be about me instead of the people who matter the most to me. One might think of it like Jenga, where one little log, if missing, can topple the whole structure. My dear family and friends make up the structure of my life, and no one is too insignificant to not be missed in the fabric of who I am. Maybe none of us are anything but our patchwork of human connections.
These are the things I did not know until I got older:
The way counting the beetles that climb all over the sidewalks and amble through the dirt can be therapeutic.
The act of being cruel to another person will never make me feel better about my own insecurities, and disliking someone is more likely to come from a selfish kernel within me.
It is acceptable to have so many copies of The Call of the Wild lounging about, and it is a good thing to write in my books.
I love capes and costume jewelry and tights and enjoy sticking odd things in my hair.
Aspens are my favorite trees, and I sort of fancy calling my daughter Aspen so that she might grow up hardy and wild and of the mountains, too.
Portuguese is actually a language I am quite passionate about.
It is necessary to be the hero of your own life.
Will I come back here, to sip from this stream of deep thoughts, when I am forty? Will I compile another list? Probably, because I love making lists, but also because I decided long ago that I will be the sort of person who constantly adds to herself to the best of her abilities. I want to always find new music to obsess over. I want to always have writing ideas that I am excited for. I want to always try new teas and read new books. The only real difference is now I will try, slave away, and push at coming into my own while I do it. I have essays, short stories, poems ,and novels to write. I have languages to study and math to improve upon.
This is the first week of my thirties. I guess it is time to get started.
