This coming weekend, I turn 40. When I say "I'm going to be 40 years old," that feels strange; like, wrong. But when I say, "I've been alive for 40 years," that feels right, natural. David keeps asking me if I want a party, and I've repeatedly told him no. I just don't have a party in me for turning 40, although I feel wonderful to be turning 40. All my life, my 40th birthday has beamed like a lighthouse on a jetty in the sea of me, beckoning, signaling, guiding me even. I have my suspicions about why, although I cannot talk about them here. They're private in a mystical way.
But as the end of my 30s approaches, I want to acknowledge how grateful I am for my life. Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.
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Welcome, my little Aries. They say it just keeps getting better. And you know what? It DOES.
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