Not a Big Fan of Birthdays

Longtime readers of this blog know I’m not a big fan of birthdays. Well, more accurately, I’m not a big fan of my birthday. Other people’s birthdays are great. Mine not so much.

Today I turn 38. I told Marathon Girl that I can no longer say I’m in my mid-thirties anymore. Instead I’m officially in my late thirties.

How depressing.

Usually on January 31, I find a poem about growing older and post it on this blog. I was going to do that this morning but then something happened that altered my plan.

After my four mile run this morning, instead of searching cyberspace for a poem, I sat down and did a little reading. But this morning a couple of sentences stood out in the book I was perusing that gave me pause. I was reading a little about life and death which seemed oddly appropriate considering what day it is. But somewhere along the line the book started talking about the challenges and trails we face and the choices we make in response to them.

As I put the book down I spend a couple of minutes pondering what I had read. My thoughts turned to the experiences I’ve had over the last year then on back through the last five years, 10 years, and so on. Like everyone else on this planet, I’ve had my share of good and bad things happen to me. And for the most part I don’t have a lot to complain about. Much of my life has been one of blessings and abundance. But even when dark times have come into my life, those experiences helped me become more compassionate and understanding to the trials and heartaches of others. They’ve made me a more patient father and husband. They’ve made me extremely grateful for the blessings I do have.

Each year, I realized, I’m not only getting older but (hopefully) a little wiser too. Each year brings new experiences and chances to prove to myself and others the person I really am. I’m not the same person I was five, 10, or even 20 years ago. Next year I’ll be a different person because of the things that will come into my life over the next 365 days.

Instead of being depressed on my birthday, I should be grateful for the time I’ve been able to spend on this earth, all the wonderful people that are part of my life, and all the knowledge and experiences I’ve accumulated over the last year. If anything, today I can look back on the last 37 years of my life and be grateful for the people and experiences that have shaped my life and helped mold me in to the man I am today.

So Happy Birthday to me. I hope to be around for many more of these and enjoy all the wonderful things life has to offer.

When You Are Old

January 31 is always a day that makes me a little sad. And, as usual, I celebrate with a poem about getting older. When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

-- BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Growing Old

Growing Old, a poem by Matthew Arnold, is running through my head today.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Alice.

Growing Old

What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone.

Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this, and more! but not, Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow, A golden day's decline!

'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more!

It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none.

It is -last stage of all - When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.

Matthew Arnold