NOTE: My birthday is coming up this month (June) and I thought it appropriate to reflect a little on what has transpired in my last 62 years on the planet. Enjoy!
I refuse as I age to deny my years. When asked at 45, I was 45. When the question came up at 60, I took 60. For, in truth, what year would I subtract? The one in which I first fell in love? Or the year I got married?
How about the one less favorable? Like the year I received my pre-induction notice into the Army? Or one of those grief-filled years spent saying good-bye after the death of my mother?
Maybe I should choose the seemingly insignificant. That year I saw the Northern Lights? Or the one spent not quite enthralled with life, just being OK with it.
No, I think I will take them all; the good, the bad, and the even not so memorable. To deny just one year would be to deny myself. Because, added up, they are my life.
Post Script: I wish I had the eloquence of one of my favorite poetesses, Sara Teasdale; who wrote the following on the same subject in 1926:
"It was a night of early spring,
The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;
Around us shadows and the wind
Listened for what was never spoken.
Though half a score of years are gone,
Spring comes as sharply now as then--
But if we had it all to do
It would be done the same again.
It was a spring that never came;
But we have lived enough to know
That what we never have, remains;
It is the things we have that go."