“Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.” – Truman Capote
Managed to survive another birthday, another year. And thanks to an idiosyncratic (and that is my highest of compliments) array of family and friends…and being alive it was quite a nice day. May I share a few highlights?
First of all I do love those Facebook birthday greetings…and every year vow to check in on a daily basis so I don’t miss a friend’s…then I don’t…but happy birthday to all I missed last year and I’ll do better this year! Because I so much enjoy your greetings to me. Seriously—it is a lovely warm and fuzzy feeling even you’re a curmudgeonly crone like me. THANK YOU ALL.
And then there are the many of you who called and SANG happy birthday to me. Who knew I had so many friends with interesting voices. Actually my daughter in law was first and she played the guitar as well; then my friend Jess who not only played the guitar but added her toddler daughter as performer. The rest of you were beautiful but without the guitar and baby it didn’t quite have the same impact (just kidding). SO THANK YOU ALL ALSO. (But perhaps you could take up a musical instrument this year…because I am in isolation and determined to do it all over again in 2021). And thanks to my sons who ordered a thermometer and masks and took a distanced walk with me.
And finally, to the sweet cards and pretty little gifts some of you dropped on my front step. Virus-free of course. They were kind and lovely as were the park photos. Here’s a photo of the cards and the poem my cousin Arne in Norway shared. It is lovely, from one of my favorite poets, and doubly pertinent.
Spring and All [By the road to the contagious hospital]
William Carlos Williams – 1883-1963
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast – a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind-
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance – Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken