What to write about turning 40? I just about never exclaim birthdays on the internet. But 40 is a big one, right? So indulge me in tired clichés stuffed in an overwritten Hallmark card:
I do a lot of reflecting and self-inventory, though some might argue that is a fancy way of proclaiming self-absorption, but I’d disagree, and that leads to a lot of journaling. It’s remarkable and rewarding to be able to go back 10 years and visit yourself at 30, processing the previous decade of life in your 20s. Walking down hallways in your mind, passing by all the rooms of thought, and other rooms of memory.
The biggest takeaway thus far is how profoundly different going from 30 to 40 is compared to going from 20 to 30. There have been so many changes. There has been a lot of loss. Some of it sad, some of it bad, some of it tragic. But loss is not always a negative thing. It’s just the universe, indifferent, reconfiguring itself, and you are standing in the middle of its highway, confused.
When I was teetering on the edge of 30, I started to think a lot about the “mountains” of life. This idea of reaching the summit of a climb only to turn around and see another mountain, with its own summit to ascend, calling out to you. That is a great thing; it means you are alive, with purpose and passion, growing and challenging yourself.
That’s the positivity of impermanence. And so, since then, my motto has been, “May there always be another mountain.”
Blankets are also impermanent. One moment, you are cozy, in bed, asleep, until another moment, when your comfort and familiarity are ripped away from you. Or maybe, you just wake up on your own and choose to get out of bed, parting with the blanket yourself.
It leaves you cold, maybe shivering until you acclimate and find your own warmth, and that comes from within as you start moving around.
This last decade has brought many ideas and notions that have me questioning my understanding of myself, all the ways in which I see the world, including some areas that felt so solid and sturdy, like a permanent concrete floor, with a nice rug “to tie the room together.”
But then the rug gets pulled from under, causing me to fall flat on my back, head on concrete, and I get to look at the sky, and I have to find meaning or gratitude, especially in the present, like this morning:
I found a sweet parking spot outside of work in NYC, and I was gifted with the most gorgeous sunrise, pushing through the Avenue’s horizon from the East River. When I turned to the West Side Street view, I was greeted by the sweet, intoxicating smell of NY Bagels from the corner deli, with my favorite sign out front, “Tossed Salads.” Today is a good day.
Part of the self-reflection process is looking ahead to the future: Do I have goals? What do I hope to accomplish? Do I have an idea of where I want or hope to be? How do I want to start off this new decade?
I’m not sure, but out of respect for the rule of threes, insert a cloth-related metaphor here.