What a wonderful thing it is to be born, to live, to savor all that is living alongside. On this special day of my birthday, I give thanks for my parents for having “the sixth.” It was not what she wanted, but I came anyway and they were glad ultimately, finding comfort in my ways. I found beauty in theirs, and later, love. I have lived into, worked for, and allowed love. Its reach is beyond anything I could have dreamed: My husband. My sons. My friends. They are the embers in the hearth of my heart.
We each are chosen for some reason or other. The cat sitting on the back of my couch looks vacantly into the room, feeling sun on his tawny face. He’s done his job long enough in our house, keeping mice at bay. Soft and “purry,” he sleeps most of the day. I am awake to what is not yet finished in me.
The tree outside my window once marked the edge of a road. I name her Maple. She has seen generations of people, horses, wagons and hay. Children have played around her widening skirt. My sons tried climbing her when they were small, but her limbs were too high above the ground. They built a rope ladder up the side of her sister, whose tall stump lost all but two branches in an ice storm. I still see them scrambling up the trunk, wedging themselves atop the rotting platform like two squirrels, peering over the valley. The next generation of adventure. Maple and her sister are the guardians of my house. I am guardian of my soul.
To be born is a wonderful thing. To live every moment is the gift.