An unimportant birthday...

A quarter of a century. 15+10. The exit from my early twenties. No matter how you'd like to put it, it pretty much doesn't matter. Since the passing of my 18th, birthdays have become somewhat meaningless to me. The luxury of days off school and presents galore wore off, what seems like eons ago, and now, they are just a way to bump you into another insurance bracket and out of another year of youth. Not that I'm lamenting my age, I've waited a long time to be older, more mature, respected by my older peers. Yet, for so long I've been told I should be enjoying my youth, my twenties, for soon those years would be gone and I would be shouldering the adult burden and slogging along the path paved with mortgage payments, child rearing, and woefully small 401Ks. It's not that I have nothing to celebrate. I am a blessed young woman, surrounded by caring family, a loving husband, a over excitable but affectionate dog, and the necessary provisions to keep my belly full, my feet warm, and my social life active. So here am I, pouring out my cynical little soul out to a blank page and a blinking cursor trying to kill my pessimism and revive the much repressed positive cheerleader  who lurks inside myself.

25 is an unremarkable age. I tire of the push, push, push of milestones in adult life. I am no where near where I thought i'd be at 25, but that's because before "real life" happens none of us really have a good idea of the work, drive, money, time, connection, serendipity, sacrifice, etc that it takes to reach our goals. Not that one should stop reaching or working towards those goals, but for myself, I certainly have taken a look around and realized i'm in a very new place, with very new people, and it's not where I wanted to be, but it's where I need to be. And that's just right. Somedays it doesn't feel right, some days I look at my peers and wish for the green lush grass upon which they seem to lay, but I know that some day my yard of life will look just as lush, just as green and I will have more pride knowing that I cultivated it, nursed it, and babied it myself. 

A poem for a Monday night walk...

* DISCLAIMER: I draw writing from life (more often than not the overly romantic/Gothic person who lives in my subconscious),and although deeply personal my writing is not always about ME personally. 

It seems all that was, was fight all around.
From every window and porch, brawling
and babies bawling.


Politics, history, race and religion. 
Nothing came easy on this particular night.
Each of them dosing the chemical fission.

Triumph was had, battles lost, but not a one rested easy.
No peace.

Anger and angst, frustration or perhaps ever fear,
not a single trigger could cure one, the plague of emotion.
The petulance raged, long into the black. 

Even the weather couldn't seem to fight back. 

When soldiered wrongs lined up tall, staunch, drawing ever near,
and good was seeking the horizon
 it seems as though Humanity itself collectively fractured
splintered
under the weight of it's fault.

And tears were shed, voices horse, and conversations
stretched beyond the limits of sinew and bone,
where spirits lay waiting, shivering, 
fetal. 


Time, however, is on our side,
light is inevitable,
the sun breaks through,
and the soldiers retreat, 
the petulance ceases, 
and the child is calm, asleep in his crib. 


Only the day to day, and yet we still live.