Of Birthdays

In the last seven days, I have turned sixty-one and I have noted the anniversary of my mother’s birth in 1926.  She would have turned ninety yesterday, had she lived.

I remember when my sisters turned fifty-nine, the age that my mother fell two weeks short of attaining.  One of them — Joyce, perhaps — mentioned feeling odd to be “older than Mother ever got to be”.  This sensation mystified me until 2014, when it happened to me.  Then I understood.  How could I be older than my mother?  It seemed unfair, unnatural, unwelcome.

In the last seven days, I have celebrated my birthday many times.  On the day itself, I shared lunch in a Jetson-themed restaurant with two new friends.  The server brought me delicate star-shaped brownies and the entire place belted out  “Happy Birthday”.  One of my lunch companions later played the harp and sang for me.  I watched Zimbabwe dancing on a beach, sitting a safe distance away with seagulls swooping around me.  In Half Moon Bay at the shop of a woman whom I met on one of my first visits here, I bought myself a pair of hand-made slippers — my second self-bought present.  The first had been a pair of earrings in Santa Cruz, with angels and a blue topaz drop.  A Kansas City family made artichoke burgers for me on Thursday.  Yesterday, a gentleman from Spain picked flowers for me in his hidden garden and took me to breakfast at a cafe on Fisherman’s Wharf, owned by a woman from Omaha who stood over our table fussing to be sure my crepes had been perfectly made.

Not to  mention:  the newlyweds who paid for my dinner at Scoma’s Sausalito two nights ago, just because they felt drawn to something in my smile.  The woman held my hand and told me that I inspired her.  Me:  Inspirational.  The very thought of having inspired someone to be kind completes my week.

Now it is Sunday, the last day of seven in this birthday week.  I will drive an hour north to Sonoma County to a winery where Ellen Cox works.  Ellen and her mother, Sharon Alberts, took me to lunch on Tuesday, another kindness — and another shared dessert; another indelible impression of goodness flowing over me.  After my tour and tasting, I will drive two hours south, back to Redwood City for tomorrow’s full day of medical appointments.  My bed will be back in the home of the Kansas City ex-pats to whom I have been connected by a mutual friend.  I will bring them a bottle of wine from up north.

I’m considering taking the long way back, so that I can see the ocean one more time before I journey on Tuesday to my landlocked home.

I’ve left out one or two elements of this week, the unpleasant ones.  A malfunctioning rental car which I had to badger the company to replace.  The pain of a needle penetrating too spastic legs.  A fall in Sausalito.  Sorrow washing over me like sea water.  An evening spent in bed with fatigue so intense that I could not even eat.  Yes — these, too, happened to me in my birthday week.  And I am tempted to complain about them.

But a bird sings outside my window and the scent of Alfonso’s roses tickles my nose.  My AirBnB hostess has provided rich coffee for my use.  The sun has risen on Sunday morning.  I can release the sadness for a little while at least, and think of the angels whom I have met on this journey instead.

It’s the eleventh day of the thirty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  I note, too, that it is the fifteenth anniversary of the horror that we call “9/11”.  Anything which I have endured pales in comparison to that tragedy — not that it is a competition, but still.  I live.  My son lives.  Six of my siblings still walk this earth.  I have friends who enrich my life.  With much effort and a bit of welcome help now and then, I am able to orchestrate a comfortable existence, including the medical insurance which pays for the treatment at Stanford and this funny, rambling birthday trip.  As I move through it all, I feel the light touch of a divine force which I do not comprehend but certainly acknowledge.    Therefore, on this glorious Sunday morning in San Rafael, I shall not complain.  Life continues.

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