Some notes on twenty-seven.

dear twenty-seven,

today is our last day together.

and i feel like a kid on christmas eve with so much anticipation and wonder. i almost never feel this way about birthdays. i often find them to be a let down for this little romantic heart; and that means i’m usually filled with nervous energy and a little bit of dread for how i’ll feel compelled to perform on my birthday for other people. not this year, though.

i haven’t felt this sense of excitement for very long. in fact, less than a month ago, my dad celebrated his birthday fifteen hundred miles away. my sister and her boyfriend made a feast — my dad’s favorites (they even nailed the pork chops, apparently) — and they all sat down and celebrated together. they were sending pictures of it all. all the little details. all of the connection. and i suddenly felt really lonely in my st. louis apartment in quarantine. and i was filled with that sad anticipation and dread for what tomorrow would bring. at some point, though, that shifted.

and i realized that this birthday could look exactly how i wanted it to. there would be no school, no final exams, or graduations; no work, or training. no, it would be filled with a lot of solitude; which, i’ve realized, sings of so much possibility. i realized that i could show up for myself. and decide what i wanted to do with this magical day.

tomorrow, i’ll celebrate by cooking my own feast for myself and alise (and penelope) — with all of my favorite foods. and i will start the day with ritual and practice and the things that bring me back to center.

but, for now, i’d like to talk about yesterday. well, all of the yesterday’s over the last year. i want to talk about your leg of the marathon, dearest twenty-seven. and i want to say thank you. you have been steady and reliable, gritty and resilient. you have show up on the hardest days with grace and a lot of patience. you have shown up again and again, treating this year you were given with the deepest reverence and commitment. thank you.

at some point this year, i realized that this has been one of the most nurturing years of my life. and i understand, now, that you put in the work. you learned how to nurture us and how to show up, even when you didn’t want to. you came to the mat, you walked into those rooms, you sat at your writing table. and in those moments, you learned something — everything — about what this body, spirit, and mind need in order to feel tended to.

this year you have released weight that we have carried for years; yes, on the yoga mat — chipping away, it seems, until this physical body found equilibrium and comfort. but, more extraordinarily, you have released the weight of so many stories that no longer serve you. about your family. and your worth. and your identity. and about safety and intimacy and work and god and sex. you have turned so many stones over, shaken so many things out, on this search. and this work, alone, has saved us.

you have learned so many small things about how to not be at war with this body. like, pausing to listen. or not holding that which needs to be expelled. you have honored this body by no longer ignoring this voice.

and you have learned that you don’t owe people your blood. or your last ounce of energy. or anything, really, that you don’t feel equipped to give. this has been the hardest to learn. manifesting the greatest stumbling blocks on this marathon. and yet, here you are, learning to say no, to set boundaries, to put your own wellness first. thank you for showing us that we have that choice.

finally, about god. you never thought you would find god again. with what catholicism did and the whole gay thing. and all the shit in between. you gave up on god, before god could have the chance to give up on you. but the winds shifted, the rooms you found yourself in changed, and you were being offered new ideas of god. god, simply, as a power greater than yourself. any power. any greater being. that was compelling. or god as wholly benevolent and loving. working in my favor even as i inadvertently work against myself. god without the ledger in the sky, the tally marks, the judgment. well, that could be cool. and, my favorite, right now though, is god as the greatest of creators. the source of creation. infusing my life with wonder and possibility and all of the pieces i need to make. to write. to draw. to imagine.

you still feel embarrassed by this whole god thing. by saying god. by returning to something that kind of feels like belief. and i think that is okay; that the embarrassment is ultimately inconsequential. and will pass eventually, as all feelings do. but you have done the work of returning, of listening to your intuition; and then saying maybe. and then saying yes. it took us almost a decade to return to a belief in god. and a lifetime, so far, to establish a belief that is only beginning to feel whole and true and intuitive and safe.

this whole life, i think — this one we have been given to share — has felt like it revolves around searching. like, to search, is our deep purpose and maybe our only work. the things you have sought out and uncovered this year are remarkable. and will be a steady foundation for us to build the rest of this life upon.

thank you.

you can pass the torch now. i think twenty-eight is ready. i hope you will find rest. and, when the time feels right, that you will return to the sidelines; and delight in the wonders of this marathon and the person you have helped to create.

love,

kristen