I’m currently in Washington, D.C. visiting friends and it feels surreal. I went to university here and am visiting my old stomping grounds. I half expect to run into my younger self on the street because the memories are so visceral. The ghost of young me is present in a way she hasn’t been on previous trips. Maybe it’s because my college friends and I are approaching 20 years of friendship, or because they all have kids of their own and I’m recognizing how much things have changed. Whatever it is, I’m acutely aware of something my spiritual teacher says.
“A 5-year-old child is transformed in due course into a 15-year-old boy,” he said. “In 10 years, the child becomes the boy. Thereafter, you will never be able to find the body of the 5-year-old child. So the child’s body has certainly died.” He then mentions the boy growing into a man, then hitting middle age, then old age, until he finally dies and says, “The rest of the changes we do not call death; but in fact, all the changes qualify as death.”
We don’t recognize them as such but all the changes we go through are a sort of death. We can’t find the people we used to be except in memory and that’s what I’m getting in touch with on this trip. I’m not the person I was and neither are my friends, but we all remember each other when we were 18. We tell stories about our past selves, the shenanigans we got up to, how we met, who dated whom, and what happened when.
It’s fun to reminisce but it truly feels like we’re talking about people that are dead, just like my spiritual teacher says. None of us are the same as we were. A part of me wants to go back in time to those college days when my friends lived within walking distance. I want to travel in a pack to coffee shops and restaurants, where we took over large tables and other patrons gave us the side eye for being so animated. These days my friends don’t all live within walking distance. And when we travel in a pack it’s because there are multiple children in tow, not because we’re a group of 10 going out for dinner.
To quote my spiritual teacher again, “This expressed universe is nothing but a collection of temporary entities which are undergoing constant metamorphosis according to the sweet will of nature.” We are all temporary entities and we are all constantly changing. Nothing stays the same. Nothing. I have some sadness about that and at the same time as I wind down this trip, I’m enjoying my stay, remembering who I was and how I felt. I’m appreciating that I do have 20 years of friendship under my belt and for a short time at least, I can say hello to 18-year-old Rebekah.
I dream of a world where we recognize we are all temporary entities undergoing constant change. A world where we understand that as we age, our past selves no longer exist. A world where we remember who we used to be and take the time to grieve for those small deaths while also appreciating who we are now.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Depending on when you’re reading this, today is my 35th birthday. It’s weird and surreal and feels like more of a milestone than turning 30. A lot of it has to do with the fact my mother had me when she was 35 and I am nowhere near that place in life. So much is still up in the air for me and a part of me feels grief about that.
At the same time, a friend reflected, “Yeah but when you thought about what life would be like at 35 you didn’t have enough information.” Meaning, when I dreamed up my life at 35, I didn’t factor in a sleep disorder that would rob me of rest for seven years. Nor did I take into account other health issues that would keep me from being able to accomplish the things I planned. So really, aren’t I right where I’m supposed to be? Given all the things I’ve been through, aren’t I doing a great job?
Seemed appropriate. Photo by Colton Brown on Unsplash
I don’t own a house, but I have an apartment I love. I’m not married, but I’m committed to myself. I don’t have kids, but I’m the beloved auntie of many children. Are things really so bad? All day my phone has buzzed with telephone calls and text messages from people wishing me happy birthday. I love and am loved and isn’t that what matters most anyway?
An excerpt of Barbara Crooker’s poem “In the Middle” seems appropriate here:
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
Running out of time — how true. I feel that acutely because very recently a dear family friend died. I’m reminded birthdays are not promised. They are not foregone conclusions. Many people don’t make it to 35, or 34, or 33. Truly every birthday is a milestone. Shivi’s death also has me asking, how I can accept the things in my life with grace? He had ALS so his death was expected and when I saw him last, he seemed at peace with it. He wasn’t bitter or resentful about dying. He accepted the fact of his life and still managed to be there for the people around him. He exuded love and care right until the end.
I’m crying as I type this because I loved Shivi so much and he is a great example of embracing life as it is. Not always, not in every moment — he was human after all — but he flowed with life. As I get older I recognize the importance of doing the same. This past year especially threw me many, many curveballs but I’m still here. I’m going where the water is warm, so to speak, I’m accepting the direction my life is taking me, and I’m letting go of preconceived notions because who can predict anything anyway? If I’ve learned anything in 35 years it’s that.
I dream of a world where we let go of preconceived notions. A world where we accept what is. A world where we feel gratitude for the present moment, even if it’s not what we anticipated. A world where we can accept each day, each year as a milestone.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
Audio at the bottom.
In about a month I’ll be 30. (One month!) Where I come from, i.e., the South, 30 means you’re married with a child or two and own a house. That is decidedly not my reality; in fact, I’m at the complete opposite end of the spectrum – single, childless, and not even an apartment, much less a house. This is not what I anticipated my life looking like. This is not what I expected for myself.
In October, a friend of mine turned 30 and when I voiced my own apprehensions about turning the big 3-0, she said, “Is life really so bad? Don’t you think you’ve lived well? Aren’t you pleased with the choices you’ve made?” I wouldn’t say I’m pleased, but I would say I think I’ve done the best I could with what I’ve been given.
Let’s pretend this is a birthday sparkler.
It’s painful to grieve for the future that could have been, the Ghost of Christmas Future, if you will, but while I don’t have the house, the kids, or the partner, I still count myself blessed. I’m well-read, well-traveled, and well-loved. By that I mean I am loved by many near and far. I belong to several communities and each of those communities is filled with loving, generous people, for which I’m grateful. Their kindness has brought me to tears over and over again.
I also think about something another friend of mine said to me in college. When I told her someone called me nontraditional, she said, “According to whose traditions?” I love that because she’s right. Whose traditions am I adopting here? Whose expectations am I foisting upon myself? Is anyone except for me judging and criticizing my life for not looking a certain way? To be honest, I think most people are too consumed with living their lives to judge mine.
I also think about a passage that has resonance for me: “[M]y serenity is inversely proportional to my expectations. The higher my expectations … the lower is my serenity. I can watch my serenity level rise when I discard my expectations.” I’ve had many expectations for my life, how it will go, what I expect will happen, and all it has accomplished is to make me sad or frustrated. Perhaps it’s time to discard the expectations and instead trust that as someone said to me a decade ago, I’m nontraditional, and that means I get to make my own traditions.
This post is all about me turning 30, but I hope you find some relevance for your own life. Things rarely work out the way we expect or plan and when that happens, I hope you’ll join me in yelling, “Plot twist!” After all, what great adventure doesn’t have a few surprises?
I dream of a world where we discard our expectations and make our own traditions. A world where we realize our lives may not follow the path we had planned, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. A world where we accept the things we cannot change, have the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I have this “thing” about age and success. I am riotously envious of those who are young and successful. Success in this sense means they wrote a best-selling book or started a business or head up a major department at work. It may seem strange for me to talk about success when only a few weeks ago I wrote a post about how only love is real. I do believe only love is real, but at the same time I know I am here to birth certain creative projects, and I have a desire to see them succeed. I feel envious of people (even fictional ones!) who are doing well for themselves under the age of 30. Somehow in my mind if you’re successful and you’re young, it’s a double whammy. A double achievement.
There are many issues I could touch on here – how success may be defined in numerous ways, how success doesn’t guarantee untold bliss and happiness – but what I’d like to focus on is the link to age. Why is it such a big deal for me? So what if some kid became a millionaire at age 12? So what if someone started up a billion dollar company and retired at age 32? Does age really matter? Why is youth such a trophy?
You know what? It’s not. Ultimately age is not important, it’s just a marker of when something was accomplished. I can take out my pressing need to do things quickly and while in the bloom of youth because really it’s the idea, the project, the art that’s most important. When I focus on age I lose sight of that. Yes, only love is real, but I am a human and I was put on this Earth to engage. To be a conduit for the divine and transmit certain messages. That’s what’s important. Not when I transmit them. “When” doesn’t ultimately matter as much as showing up for my part. If I accomplish something sooner it doesn’t make it more valuable. Let me say that again. If I accomplish something at the age of 15 or at 50 neither is better than the other.
Admitting “when” something is accomplished is not important is difficult for me to accept because I’ve been focused on the “when” for so long. But honestly, I’ve known in my heart all along the creation is what’s matters most.
A friend of mine said to me years ago young people who join 12 step programs are so lucky because they spend fewer years acting out their addictions. My response to him was even experiencing one day of sobriety is a gift. It doesn’t matter when you become sober, just as long as you’re sober. The same can be applied to dreams I think. It doesn’t matter when you accomplish your dreams, as long as they are accomplished.
I can now release my want to do things immediately and before I’m 30 because I know there is plenty of time. I don’t have to rush. Everything falls into place when it’s supposed to, and the idea success is even greater if I’m young when it happens can drop off because that’s all in my mind. I don’t have to believe that anymore. And I have the same wish for others.
I dream of a world where we all lose our hang up with time. A world where we understand “when” doesn’t matter, as long as our heart and soul’s desire comes to fruition. A world where we understand perhaps benevolent forces are at work that have a broader perspective about “when” it’s best for something to manifest. A world where we live freely without comparison and judgment. A world where allow ourselves to be, to dream, to achieve, knowing whenever our projects manifest is when they’re supposed to.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.