Imbolc Valentine Moon
Of course, it’s just a spot on the earth’s orbit around the sun. The very spot where you or I slid out of the birth canal, or, in my case, were excised through the abdomen, kicking and bawling, with no clue about why the world had suddenly gone from watery and warm to non-viscous and cool. No wonder we cry.
(So, there I am, just a bit more than halfway between perihelion and the spring equinox.)
And, it’s an extremely ordinary event. I mean, everyone who ever lived–everyone–had one. Certain cultures, I’m told, place no emphasis on the birthday at all and maybe they’re right, but the sentimentality of our way pleases me all the same.
People call us and tell us they love us. Are happy for us. Gifts come. Cards. Smiles. A feeling of particularity overshadows all else for at least one day. Love gets concrete on birthdays.
Advancing age makes me no less interested in celebrating this most ordinary of events which is, of course, supremely extraordinary in one important way: it’s the only time this happened to me. Or you. 66 is a good number. So was 16. 26. 76. The number says you’re still on board spaceship earth and punching your ticket for another full ride.