Hey there. It’s been a long time since I’ve written, I know. Today is my birthday. I love birthdays—mine, yours, everybody’s. I’ve always credited my mother with this. She made my birthday special every year when I was a kid. She still does, even now. My birthday—October 27—is just before Halloween, but I was never allowed to have a Hallween-themed birthday party, because she wanted the two events to be separate. And while she decorated the house for every possible holiday for which Hallmark sold cardboard cutouts, she never ever hung a single ghost or goblin until October 28. (As a result, I could not care less about Halloween and could probably name fewer than half a dozen costumes I’ve bothered to wear in my now forty-two years.)
Each year on my birthday, I try to take stock of the year that has gone before and make a list of goals for the one ahead. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years or so. I don’t make resolutions, but I do set goals. What would I like to see myself achieve in the next year of my life? Some of my goals for 41 are laughable in retrospect, pandemic notwithstanding. But if I hadn’t torn my rotator cuff in January, I might have been able to ride 750 miles (on my stationary bike—let’s not be confused about my longstanding abhorrence for the outdoors). I didn’t meet my goal of books to read in their entirety, either, which is a bummer but understandable: my father died in January, and had been in the hospital for the preceding five weeks. I traveled to see him in December and January, and then I traveled for his funeral in February, when the ice storm struck Texas and the southeastern US, ultimately delaying his burial until March, when I traveled to Texas again. All of that, plus the ensuing grief—and let’s not forget the Penny’s death—and I moved in July, really cut into my sustained-reading ability.
Should I repeat my reading goal for this next year? Should I revise it downward, into something more manageable? Would that be giving in? My goal for Year 41 was upwards of two books per month, which is not too shabby considering how much reading I do for work (doesn’t count toward the goal), and the goal is specific to books—I do a considerable amount of magazine/newspaper/digital reading every day as well. Audiobooks do count, of course.
One goal I did meet was visiting a new place each month, even in the pandemic. This didn’t always involve far-flung travel. Visiting parts of Virginia I hadn’t seen before inspired me to draft the goal, and I went to the Natural Bridge and Luray Caverns. Thanks to the aforementioned ice storm, I can check South Carolina off my list of states to see. I’ve also now seen parts of Louisiana I never thought I’d have the pleasure of viewing.
I didn’t make beef wellington, though I’m no longer sure I want to. I used to find a lot of joy in cooking. I’m not sure I do anymore. I do find a lot of joy in eating, though.
For years I have had artistic implulses and only indulged them rarely, and badly (possibly through cooking). In the last two months I’ve allowed myself to lean into these desires and I’ve started taking art classes. So far I’ve taken classes in mixed media and colored pencils, learning about color theory and watercolor and all sorts of things I’ve only begun to explore. I’m learning to draw now, in my early forties.
I’m not offering any recommendations tonight, only reflections. I’m still thinking through what I want to put on my list of goals for my forty-second year. Things to do, places to see, languages to learn. One thing learning to draw has reminded me is that my brain is capable of expansion, even as I age. I’d love to hear all of the ways you’re challenging yourself as you age. Reply to this email and/or let me know in the comments section. And thanks for reading. I’ll try to be a better correspondent this next year.
I feel like I experienced part of this blog. You left out so many details! Can one of your goals be to commit to 90 days around the world with Stacy?