Was mixing gesso today, in preparation for a new generation of bird bowls. Noticed a few things. First, my worn brushes seemed extra tired, lumpy, miserable. My cup was also unhappy, also ho-hum. Aged. World-weary. And I felt bad before I giggled to myself, that sometimes I love things too much. Even inanimate objects, especially inanimate objects. It’s what happens. I become fixated on something, or unconsciously attached, and then it becomes mine, always. When shopping, I’ll walk around a whole store feeling the weight of something in my palm until I can’t bear not having it in my life. When eating or drinking, I drink out of two favorite teacups, use only teaspoons to eat soup with, carry personal chopsticks in my purse sometimes, in cases of emergency, and so on.
My list of enthusiasms is long and sincere. But, as it is ever growing, and ever more sincere, I confess I am equally good at making peace with the inevitable end of some of my attachments. We shouldn’t keep things we cannot part with, no? No. That seems unhealthy. I do understand comfort, though. The joy in favorite things.
Must interrupt myself. I’ve just realized this could all be spun as a terrible metaphor for friendship or love, and let me frantically wave my hands in the shape of a STOP, if that’s where you thought this was going. I had nothing deep to say — except to note that I think I’ll recycle my sad brushes away tomorrow. And then I’ll rise like a Phoenix? Like the dawn? A toast, to a new beginning…?
Okay, predictably, there is something schmaltzy I’d like to put extra meaning and feeling into today. In a few days, my age will grow a number. And, while I am fond of using holidays like Christmas or New Years to signify a new beginning, a new opportunity to change myself, better myself, to suddenly pursue suppressed ambitions – admittedly I’m feeling quite different about my upcoming birthday this year.
When I turned 18, my family insisted I have an extravagant birthday cotillion. The event, though large for my taste, was overwhelmingly kind to me. So kind was it, that I’ve felt the need to go into hiding all subsequent birthdays ever since (to this day my grateful and embarrassed ears heat red for it). My birthday is the only fact about me I am quiet about. But as I’ve grown older, it seems I’ve acquired more generous friends… Despite my birthday being days away, I’ve heard from several good, close friends, and they keep saying, “Happy birthday.”
A birthday. I hadn’t even noticed that it was upon me, honestly. And what do I do? Do I become anxious? Depressed? Whip out my list of 30 things, and feel very, very behind? Try to do at least three things on the list on my birthday? Or do I make myself a cake? Blow out candles? I have no wishes! Not any at the moment… Because, to be honest, I find myself surprised, warmed, and well-fed by the sweet people in my life who have remembered for me. I had been keeping so mum! And still, upon finding myself the recipient of vigorous hugs and well wishes, of many blessings, I feel as if I’ve celebrated to my heart’s content already.
Anyway, I am very grateful, and very touched, and have been this way all week. And I must note, in the context of this blog, that instead of plotting my next great endeavor, I think I will simply enjoy this week and all the loved ones I’m privileged to know. But for today, for other news, I have several new bowls that are going to be distributed soon:
Hooray! Love you, friend!