Gloria's Oversexed Mind: Birthday Brooder: what does your tank look like?

Aug 18, 2008

Birthday Brooder: what does your tank look like?

It's amazing how many people have been reminding me about and sending greetings for my upcoming birthday. Guess it's the price of a myspace account, which informs everyone on your friends list of the date.

I was sort of planning on pretending it wasn't happening -- even making the executive decision to take off the week *before* so I'd be sure to be busy the week *of*. To say that I'm in complete fucking shock over how fucking old I am right now is an understatement. I don't know if the problem is I never expected to live this long, or that I just don't FEEL any different (apart from the afore-mentioned state of near-perpetual shock). I was raised in a family that dreaded aging (and all types of change, really) with a morbid passion and never spoke of it. Old people were a different species. And since I never had (or, more precisely, never knew) grandparents, the random elderly aunt or uncle I did know seemed to belong to another genetic mutation of humanity. People who were, possibly, born old.

So here I am, now firmly ensconced in my 50s, and feeling pretty much the same about most everything, although all the feelings have gone through so many filters, they have all become refined, defined, and, finally, accommodated. Instead of suffering over imperfections, I've looked for ways to integrate them into a mostly happy life.

For example: I was an exuberant child but also painfully shy and introspective. At school, other kids, mistaking that exuberance for sociability, glommed onto me, which stressed me out. I didn't know what to make of their overtures. I certainly didn't feel popular. I defined myself by all the people who wouldn't have anything to do with me. Their opinions carried more weight. When I went to summer camp, where I got lost in the jumble of other children and felt depressed, the number of people who wouldn't have anything to do with me magnified in my mind to almost all of them. I would escape the pain by vanishing, hiding somewhere behind cabins or under trees to brood alone. Gradually, I've built a life where I almost never have to face any of the above awkwardnesses. I'm reclusive, which suits my shy nature; I live in the woods, where you vanish into the landscape the minute you step outdoors; my life and my work are devoted to thinking about things and putting those thoughts into words, whether through writing or giving people advice. I live with the world's most loving dogs and cats, and with two people who have proven their love for me in countless ways: Will for almost 20 years now, Ketzl for nearly 8. There are bad moments sometimes, but overall, it's a life which makes room for who I really am and allows me to live in peace.

I was thinking these comforting thoughts today while contemplating the new fish tank. For now it is a still landscape of water plants and a beautifully prepared chunk of sandstone, drilled with two trilobal holes (that look like hearts to me) and heat-treated to enhance the striations. Will has kindly volunteered one of the amazingly strange bubble quartz rocks he dug out of his mother's garden in Missouri, when he went home some months ago for her funeral. It will go in later today, and will be beautiful and loved by little fish, but also a warm reminder of his mom. With a substrate of natural gravel and five plant varieties, it's so charming in there, I could imagine swimming through it myself. There are places to hide and places to feed and most of all, room simply to be.

Adulthood, I think, is about making worlds for yourself. Worlds that satisfy. Not perfect worlds -- nothing's perfect. But good enough to make you glad you're alive. My home is one world I've built. My garden is another. In both, I experience a life-affirming balance of intense emotions and tranquil pleasures.

For me, growing up is not about changing and becoming someone else, some old person; it's about building worlds that give me the room to be who I really am.

Posted at 02:55 PM in Autobiographical Urges | Permalink