happy birthday

Many years ago I read about a very industrious and productive girl, Rhoda Richards, who wove thirteen yards of cloth on the day she celebrated her thirteenth birthday (August 8th, 1797). She has been in the back of my mind all these years, making me wonder at each of my birthdays, what I could “do” to celebrate each passing year.

Today is my 57th birthday and all I can do is chuckle to myself at the large number I now have to work with. Weaving fabric is hardly a possibility, although I could probably manage a length with 57 threads… I suppose I could make 57 cookies or play 57 songs on the piano, although Rhoda is probably tsk-tsk-ing me, remembering the 57 loaves of bread she made the day she turned 57 (or whatever she did that day).

Birthdays give me the urge to quantify myself, evaluate what I’ve done that year, measure my life against what I’d hoped it would be, what I think I could/should have done. But not this year. For some reason I am looking at things differently. I am having trouble quantifying my life, I can’t even think of any major accomplishments this year. I am at a loss.

It occurs to me that perhaps that is the very thing that this year has given me, a new perspective about myself. There is a great peace in coming to the point where one doesn’t need to measure their own value, they accept who they are, appreciating the good and doing the best they can with the not-so-good. After 57 years, I am finally there. I am happy just to be alive. Each day is full of joy. I am content to love and be loved. I am grateful, hopeful. I will celebrate this day just enjoying myself, whatever takes place. I may even have a 57-minute nap!