Fifty Candles

Two very annoying things happened this week, and they are related to one big thing that will happen later this month: my 50th birthday.

First, after three years of working on my own and some bad work and life situations that have left me financially drained, I need to find a ‘real’ job. I had an interview for a senior position a couple of weeks ago. It was a policy position for which I was perfectly qualified. It was between me and a man who is 27 and right out of grad school. This week, I got a phone call that the job was offered to the younger man. I was immensely qualified, I was told, and my experience was impressive…but they’d decided to go with someone who might have “some longevity with the organization.” 

In other words, I am too old.

Of course I was pissed off. But I also had a chuckle, because this is like some weird Gen X twilight zone. When I was in my 20s, I got turned down for job after job because they went to Boomers who had more experience. Now, I have TOO much experience and am losing out to Millenials. At some point in the past 15 years, for a good three months or so, I might have been exactly the right age to hire. I wish I’d known when that was happening.

The other thing that happened was that the “Oh, what are you doing for your birthday?” questions started. I was at an appointment, and the person had seen my birthdate on my file. 

“Ooh, this is a big one! What are you doing to celebrate?” she asked, breathlessly. 

I shrugged. “Not much.”

She pooh-poohed this, insisting I MUST do something monumental for my 50th. She and her friends had gone to Vegas. Or maybe my husband would throw me a big party?

I shook my head. I had neither the necessary people or resources to make either of those things happen. Plus, as an introvert, my idea of the Bad Place would be a surprise party or a weekend in Vegas. 

“I will be at home, with my cats and kids, eating a lot of cake,” I insisted. It seemed ideal to me, really. But this woman looked at me like this was the saddest idea in the world.

I’ve never really enjoyed birthdays or New Year’s Eve, or any event for which you are made to feel required by law to have a good time no matter what else is going on in your life. Don’t get me wrong – I am not giving in completely to my inner Eeyore and indulging in a pity-party for my birthday. I do not intend to spend my birthday staring mournfully out my window and thinking about everything that’s wrong. But somehow, having a giggly wine-bash just because that’s what social media says I should do doesn’t seem right to me. That’s not what I want. It’s *my* 50th, damn it, and I should mark it the way I want.

There are a lot of good things in my life, and things I’m proud of. know I have a lot of privilege, and I’m grateful for what I have. But I feel the weight of these 50 years. I bear the scars of having survived them when, a few times, I was sure I wouldn’t. Lately, I can’t seem to get out from under the weight of my life, and that weight obscures all but the dark things. My kids are unhappy and struggling. My parents are ill. I have no job or income. My personal life in no way resembles what I thought it would be a whole lifetime ago, when I was 25. I cannot say that I am a success in any of the areas of life that are important to me.

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To no one’s surprise, this was one of my favourite books when I was little. 

Am I wrong for not wanting to throw a party to shine a light on that?

I know there are things I can’t change in my life. There are things I need to just keep pushing through. But maybe I can light these 50 birthday candles and shine a light to find the joy.

To help me think about what the next part of my life will look like (and what I need to do to get there), I recently did a Joy Audit. A Joy Audit (or Life Audit) is a series of reflective questions about key parts of your life — personal, professional, spiritual, financial — that helps you focus on what is bringing you joy, what you need more of, and what you need to cut loose. 

What my Joy Audits always remind me is that I need to be true to the things that have been important to me since I was a little girl: things like writing and being creative, helping people, taking care of myself spiritually, and being independent. This time, my Joy Audit also helped me think about how I want to mark this approaching milestone birthday.

My Joy Audit reminded me that one of the things that brings me joy is doing something to leave a legacy to the world. If my years in this realm are slipping through the hourglass, how can I leave a mark that says I was here? How can I be sure the fact that I existed made a difference? How can I bring joy to others?

So my celebration of this milestone birthday will be quiet and personal, but it will last the whole month (I’m wondering if this means a month of cake, too, and I think the answer is yes. Because 50, damn it). 

Every day until my birthday on November 28th, I’m giving myself four gifts:

  • I’ll focus on one thing I’m grateful for, and do whatever I can to amplify the joy it brings.
  • I’ll make time for the gifts I’ve already been given, like writing just for the pleasure it gives me. I won’t let it be pushed to the back burner (helpful that my birthday falls during #NaNoWriMo!).
  • I’ll choose one gift I can give the world, in whatever small way. This might be a small act of kindness. It might be joining a board of an organization where I know I can make a difference. Whatever it is, in a small way, it will help me leave the world a better place.
  • I’ll choose one gift to give to myself. Not a material thing, but something that brings me everyday joy. A walk in the forest with my dog. Coffee with a friend. Reading one of the books piled on my nightstand. Forgiving myself for not being who or where I expected to be.

Fifty candles can shine a lot of light. They can burn down what’s not needed. They can give warmth and comfort.

That’s what I can do, too.

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Time and Tide

I like to tell my children two facts to dazzle them with proof of my advancing years:

1. I was born (slightly) before humans went to the moon, and;

2. Three-quarters of my life (and most of its most significant events) came before social media. 

Of these two facts, it’s the latter that my kids find most shocking, because a life without social media — without a digital trail of your every move, just a click away— feels more alien to them than a trip to space.

Most of the hard proof of my existence is analog, not digital. It’s photos and memorabilia, and it’s scarce and scattered. It’s shoved, out of order, into photo albums and shoeboxes and slide carousels. It’s hidden in cupboards and cabinets and basements. It’s gathering dust in mysterious undeveloped rolls of film in a junk drawer. It’s falling out of yearbooks, along with pressed flowers and notes whose importance I’ve forgotten (although they were important enough for 16-year-old me to keep them forever, certain that middle-aged me would remember and be impressed). 

It’s easy to ignore analog memories. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t look at it. Hide that photo. Pack away the yearbook. If I don’t think of them, the memories stay hidden and unconfronted. Many exist nowhere but in my mind. And memories, I’m all too aware, are tenuous things. Keep them hidden too long, and they may well fade or get lost forever…much like an old Polaroid fades, its image slipping away.

The digital world, though, doesn’t let things slip away. We trip over the memories it throws in our path, unbidden and out of context. It’s not the shoebox hidden under the bed; it’s Pandora’s Box opened in front of the world.

I was reminded of this last week when Facebook showed me what I was doing eleven years ago. Memories from that far back don’t usually pop up in my timeline; back in my early social media days, I didn’t post much, unless it was something really important. And this had been important: my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. We’d spent it at White Point Beach Resort on Nova Scotia’s south shore. The early October days had been warm enough for my kids, then just two and four, to play in the ocean. My parents happily spent hours with them on the beach, sharing stories and making memories. 

The picture that popped up in my timeline was sweet: a photo of the two most important females in my life — my mother and my daughter — walking on the sand, backs to the camera, marching purposefully toward an adventure. In this photo, Daisy is a lively little strawberry-blond girl whose biggest problem in life is figuring out which Disney princess is her favourite. She is walking next to my mother: a tall, vibrant redhead, intently telling Daisy stories and secrets.

The photo took my breath away. It took me by the shoulders and forced me to acknowledge how much things have changed in eleven years. When it popped into my timeline, I’d just returned from visiting my parents for their 61st wedding anniversary. When I visit my mother these days, I note the repetition, the lost memories, the uncertain questions about how old Daisy and Puck are and what they are doing. I notice that my parents’ house is not as well cared for as it used to be, and that my mother doesn’t want to leave the house, at all. I see that the brilliant red hair is faded to silver-streaked copper.  I note all these things, but I hold them at arms-length. I don’t’ look at them too closely. She is, I tell myself, 81. We are all getting older. That’s all it is. Nothing has changed, so much.

But this photo. More than anything in the last five years, it’s forced me to look at what’s happened to her – to us. Even more than that time, five years ago, when my parents were going away and she showed up at my house with twelve loaves of half-eaten, partly-moldy bread for ‘safekeeping’. Even more than two Christmases ago, when she gave 12-year-old Daisy a size 4T sweater.  Even more than the several times she’s confused me with her late sister-in-law, calling me by her name and giving me the cold shoulder because they never got along well.

This photo forces me to look at the before and after. I am jolted by the realization of how much she’s failed in just eleven years, how quickly dementia has pulled at the threads of both her mental and physical self, loosening the weave that held her together. She is a faded Polaroid of who she once was. I am struck by how willfully I haven’t looked at it.

I show the photo to Daisy, asking her if she remembers that day. She cocks her head to the side and thinks.

‘I remember getting in bed with Nana and Papa early in the morning,” she tells me. “Papa was snoring. But Nana told me stories. She told me the story of little Red Riding Hood.”

I smile, picturing my redheads sharing that story in the dawn hours.

Daisy wrinkles her nose at the photo. “I was all in pink,” she says. “I was such a girly-girl.”

Daisy sees little in common with the tiny girl on the beach. She doesn’t like pink anymore. She’s known for a while that she’d rather find a princess than a prince. She barely recognizes herself in the photo. I, though, see her, still. I will always recognize her, as my soul recognized her’s the first time I held her and looked into her eyes. She’s the same, though grown. The photo shows her walking eagerly toward adventure. She’s well on the path, now.

Daisy doesn’t recognize my mother, either. She doesn’t really remember a time when my mother was lively and ready to go for walks and adventures. She only remembers the more fragile, uncertain grandmother.

My mother, too, is still there, although it’s harder to recognize her. As the bright red hair fades, I feel her essence is fading, too. Who she was in this photo is disappearing like a footprint in the sand. It’s only the memories that will preserve the way she was. I’ve been hesitant to look at those memories. I see now that I have to look and to remember before it all fades – before time and tide shift it all, and rub it out altogether.