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It's been a year and so much has changed and so much is the same.

My brother who spent my last birthday calling me from the psych ward is gone now.  Twice today the phone rang with male well-wishers who I thought might be him, even before I'd read this old post.  Funny, because he never really acknowledged my birthday, but I thought about him and talked about him quite a bit today.  And I missed him, the him I knew, the him I would miss...not the him that he was at the end of his life.  But I am sad nonetheless when I think of him.

And Elliot will have another eye surgery in a couple of weeks...just like we were awaiting last year.  It's fascinating to look back at these posts...otherwise, I don't think I'd have a clue when all of these events happen.

How's my birthday going?  Well, I woke up this morning and had a complete meltdown after the 10th "Mommy, mommy" requesting something.  Despite the lovely cake and many surprises...I'm reaching the edge of my capacity for this life of glorified servitude, and need to make a concerted effort to dedicate time for my own needs and desires.  The necessity of that was never more obvious to me than after my over-reaction to my daughter's own meltdown about her school clothes.  As I drove to Elliot's field trip, I asked myself several times, "Why are you even going to this thing?  Spend today on you, crazy woman."  And then I looked in my rearview mirror, where I could see Elliot talking about the things he saw through the window, and knew that his first ride on a school bus, and his big smile would be better salve for my soul than any foot rub I could buy.  So I went on with the plan, to ride over to the pumpkin patch, and saw in so many smiles of these children that their joy can be so easily transfered, and that I should receive it, so genuinely given, as the true joy of my life...being around children, my own and others...

I need to strike a balance between the routines of giving, seemingly endless, between work, and home...and my own desires to do so very much--to volunteer, chaperone, build that puzzle, go on the play date, plan the party, paint the picture, blah, blah, blah...and just be, by myself, and be still.  I need this time to tap into my own wishes and desires, to grieve for my brother, to plan with my husband, to dream for my children, to listen to myself, and love who I see, inadequate but hopeful.

And in this same stillness, I hope to find the capacity to give more...to enjoy my parents as they enter the last stage of their lives, and to be more present to all of the love that surrounds my daily life through friendships, family, and community.  My best birthday gift today was my cousin Becky telling me that she and her 3 siblings all consider me a sibling...this, when I've lately felt so much like the only child...I have so much in this exuberant, crazy life that is so perfect in it's dysfunction.  And I am grateful for it all.  I want the calm of mind to enjoy it all...that is my birthday wish.

Top Ten from Austin

10.  The mexican freetail bats emerging at dusk from under Congress Avenue Bridge.

9.  Zilker Botanical Gardens.

7.  Watching Ana create two items out of glass.

6.  Great shopping!

5. A late, debaucharous (sp?) night of dancing with a skirt that was too short, with no concerns whatsoever.

4.  Witnessing Becky and Jon marry.  Beginning a life together is a big deal.

3.  Seeing my 75 year-old dad in a tuxedo for the first time (he gave away the bride), and asking him to dance.  Damn, he's pretty smooth.

2.  Watching my daughter recite a poem (below) during toasts in front of 100 people.  She's so brave, and I am tremendously proud.  4 days with her was such a tremendous gift.

1. Coming home to my 2 sweet boys, and my honey of a husband.

***
In poems, our earth's wonders
Are windowed through
Words
A good poem must haunt the heart
And be heeded by the head of the
Hearer
With a wave of words, a poet can
Change his feelings into cool, magical, mysterious
Mirages
Without poetry our world would be
Locked within itself--no longer enchanted by the poet's
Spell





Peter Keslo



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