I suppose with the advance of technology it seems a blog is just as good a place to write a birthday essay as my old journals were. The problem is that I cannot find (read: have not unpacked) my big journal and my little one is small, not conducive to writing an actual birthday essay, more like a birthday note.
I guess that would be fine. I finally don't feel whiny or like going on at length about stress and how miserable I feel. I know my job will end in December; I know I won't be employed; I do worry about money but I am confident that being a freelance grant writer and freelance author and editor will be able to get me by and allow me to spend more time with my children and my own writing. At my age now, 57 today, I deserve that, and I can work for that and achieve it. I finally have the strength and courage to face the fact that I cannot work in another office cubicle (or even a nice office, frankly), showing up 8-5 everyday and plodding through life sitting on my ass until I have a heart attack or stroke. I need to make my own hours, make my own work, and work on my art.
I also need some land, some chickens, a couple of goats, and a nice garden. I want to grow my own food, have fresh eggs, be around chickens (okay, call me insane, but I like chickens. When I lived with chickens in Santa Cruz, CA during grad school I frankly enjoyed them, silly creatures that they are). Sounds ridiculous for a city girl from Brooklyn but it's something I've always wanted.
So this birthday, even though I'm 57 and technically well past middle age as far as statistics go, I'm quite happy and looking ahead to still reaching my dreams. My young dreams may be behind me but there are dreams I still have and I don't have to give them up. I can reach them, and it's fun to strive as well. I'm finally starting to wake up in the mornings and feel good again.
I think this is the happiest birthday essay I've written in a long while. Let's see if I can carry it through the years.