I was born on April 29, 1965. I turned 45 years old this year. On my 45th birthday, I woke up alone, unemployed, recovering from alcoholism, and scared to death. I remember feelings so sorry for myself. “I’m 45,” I kept saying, “I’m 45!” I am 45 years old and have done so little.
My life is half over and I have never seen Vincent Van Gogh’s “Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers." My life is half over and I have never experienced the world class cuisine of Jamie Oliver or his “game ragù with pappardelle .” My life is half over and I have never felt the white, pebbly sand of the Mediterranean beaches or the earth of an exotic, foreign country beneath my feet. My life is half over and I haven’t listened to the great symphonies of the world—Berlin’s Philharmonic, the performance of Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti. My life is half over and I have yet to smell the uniquely exotic scents of Dhofar. My life is half over.
I spent that day as I usually did. I babysat my 2 year-old grandson Jax. I called my Daddy, who shares my birthday, and listened to him sing to me. I did household chores and went for a walk and surrounded myself with memories of brothers and sisters and lovers and life. I spent some time with Katherine, my daughter, my life, and I ended the day on Mama’s front porch in a rocker. Pretty uneventful, right?
But as I sat down to journal about my 45th birthday—my 45 years on this earth, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a Van Gogh, I realized, but I had looked into the beautiful eyes of a grandson who was part of me and born out of love. Perhaps I hadn’t experienced world class cuisine, but I had tasted the delicious love of a daughter. No, it’s true, I hadn’t felt the earth of an exotic country beneath my feet, but I had lived in my hometown my whole life, as did my parents, and as will my child. I hadn’t heard Tchaikovsky, or other great symphonies of the world, but I had heard the laughter of children, the unique melody of spring peepers, and my Dad sing to me and for me. I hadn’t smelled the frankincense of Dhofar, but I had breathed in the smell of a man who loved me. These were my opus and my life was just beginning. What a wonderful birthday.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
My Opus
I was born on April 29, 1965. I turned 45 years old this year. On my 45th birthday, I woke up alone, unemployed, recovering from alcoholism, and scared to death. I remember feelings so sorry for myself. “I’m 45,” I kept saying, “I’m 45!” I am 45 years old and have done so little.
My life is half over and I have never seen Vincent Van Gogh’s “Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers." My life is half over and I have never experienced the world class cuisine of Jamie Oliver or his “game ragù with pappardelle .” My life is half over and I have never felt the white, pebbly sand of the Mediterranean beaches or the earth of an exotic, foreign country beneath my feet. My life is half over and I haven’t listened to the great symphonies of the world—Berlin’s Philharmonic, the performance of Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti. My life is half over and I have yet to smell the uniquely exotic scents of Dhofar. My life is half over.
I spent that day as I usually did. I babysat my 2 year-old grandson Jax. I called my Daddy, who shares my birthday, and listened to him sing to me. I did household chores and went for a walk and surrounded myself with memories of brothers and sisters and lovers and life. I spent some time with Katherine, my daughter, my life, and I ended the day on Mama’s front porch in a rocker. Pretty uneventful, right?
But as I sat down to journal about my 45th birthday—my 45 years on this earth, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a Van Gogh, I realized, but I had looked into the beautiful eyes of a grandson who was part of me and born out of love. Perhaps I hadn’t experienced world class cuisine, but I had tasted the delicious love of a daughter. No, it’s true, I hadn’t felt the earth of an exotic country beneath my feet, but I had lived in my hometown my whole life, as did my parents, and as will my child. I hadn’t heard Tchaikovsky, or other great symphonies of the world, but I had heard the laughter of children, the unique melody of spring peepers, and my Dad sing to me and for me. I hadn’t smelled the frankincense of Dhofar, but I had breathed in the smell of a man who loved me. These were my opus and my life was just beginning. What a wonderful birthday.
My life is half over and I have never seen Vincent Van Gogh’s “Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers." My life is half over and I have never experienced the world class cuisine of Jamie Oliver or his “game ragù with pappardelle .” My life is half over and I have never felt the white, pebbly sand of the Mediterranean beaches or the earth of an exotic, foreign country beneath my feet. My life is half over and I haven’t listened to the great symphonies of the world—Berlin’s Philharmonic, the performance of Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti. My life is half over and I have yet to smell the uniquely exotic scents of Dhofar. My life is half over.
I spent that day as I usually did. I babysat my 2 year-old grandson Jax. I called my Daddy, who shares my birthday, and listened to him sing to me. I did household chores and went for a walk and surrounded myself with memories of brothers and sisters and lovers and life. I spent some time with Katherine, my daughter, my life, and I ended the day on Mama’s front porch in a rocker. Pretty uneventful, right?
But as I sat down to journal about my 45th birthday—my 45 years on this earth, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a Van Gogh, I realized, but I had looked into the beautiful eyes of a grandson who was part of me and born out of love. Perhaps I hadn’t experienced world class cuisine, but I had tasted the delicious love of a daughter. No, it’s true, I hadn’t felt the earth of an exotic country beneath my feet, but I had lived in my hometown my whole life, as did my parents, and as will my child. I hadn’t heard Tchaikovsky, or other great symphonies of the world, but I had heard the laughter of children, the unique melody of spring peepers, and my Dad sing to me and for me. I hadn’t smelled the frankincense of Dhofar, but I had breathed in the smell of a man who loved me. These were my opus and my life was just beginning. What a wonderful birthday.
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