Is 51 the 2/3 point?

Thank you for all the birthday wishes. 51 is causing more introspection than last year’s typical milestone of 50. In part this may be that in 2024 I was in Arizona, distracted by the captivating depths of the Grand Canyon and the perhaps more terrifying prospect that my baby would choose a college on the other side of the continent.

Grand Canyon

Sept 6, 2024

But this year feels weightier and like it might truly mark the halfway point of my adult story. 30 years ago, at age 21, I began dating the man I’d known since we were gawky preteens, not fully aware these were the beginnings of the love story of a lifetime. This year, I watch as my mother at 81 adapts to a narrower life following a massive stroke last March. If 51 marks the halfway point of adulthood, if I get another trio of decades equal to those I’ve already had, I am in.

Thirty years ago, my aspirations for the future were appropriately scaled to the shorter scope of that chapter—a starlit wedding and epic romance; babies with fat feet and sweet neck napes to nuzzle; a home with soaring ceilings, light, equal parts whimsy and welcoming; an intentionally international adventurous life full of sports, animals, oceans and affirming creative success -- all with a grounding love story at its epicenter.

I certainly didn’t think too much about the second act, the quasi-empty nest, the launching of bright but separate storylines for our young adults, a love story that sinks into its roots in Scrabble games and morning coffee and the quiet certainty of the long run, our vocational storylines beating a steady background drum to the thrumming melodies of our passion pursuits. I was less aware of—took for granted-- the machinations of our country’s democratic structure. I was more focused on ribbons and outcomes, and less on building a partnership with an animal where there is trust and a respected loop of communication. I was picturing a celebratory red carpet moment for a novel to film adaptation, and not the solid teaching/writing/ghost writing/editing life I have now. I was thinking about propagation of my species in terms only of my own human offspring—not realizing how the nurture would expand to include a circle of my kids’ friends, nieces and nephews, college students and of course, a parade of animals. Back then, I was not dreaming about the specifics of heirloom seed starting or creating future-heirloom crazy quilts from bins of my children’s old clothing.

And yet, here I am.

In the 24 hours surrounding this 51st birthday, I did the following things:

--had our sacred morning two coffees with cream with best friend/husband of 25 years

--harvested and roasted ancho/banana/jalapeno peppers and orange accordion tomatoes from the garden for a salsa

--took a nature walk/water romp in the Pennypack with my newly 24-year-old son and dog, and celebrated him with sushi and Danish butter cake

--delivered for long arm quilting to a dear friend the top of Piper’s college-quilt, which we stitched this summer from hundreds of her childhood clothes and will deliver to her dorm, not across the country but in Florida near her brother, next week

--submitted to agent the full manuscript for one of my pen names

--cleaned the coop and checked (in vain!) for first eggs from my freeloading spring chickens

--gave away three mammoth butternut squash that weigh as much as your average preschooler (I have more--let me know if you want some!)

--played with my hairy grandkitties and walked a boy loop with husband, oldest, big dog and male cats

--rode bareback and bitless into an Indian summer thunderstorm on my equine partner of seven years, Phoenix, who was not convinced this was my best idea

--hiked a 4.5 mile Sleepy Hollow walk-and-talk loop with my sister and sister-cousin, founding original members of our weekday morning Schlubby Fit workout group, 13 years strong

--received the sweetest texts and calls from family, long-distance Umiami and FIU kids, their people, former students and sisters of my heart

--celebrated to the tunes of our collective Cayman Island love story Holiday Inn/Barefoot Man origins with J, my sister and her husband at a fabulous UB40 concert, an event Nick dubbed “CB51”

--capped off the birthday with five minutes left in Sept 6 2025 by driving my mom’s lost caregiver from her shift change in the rain to her lost Uber driver circling in the dark roads of our sleepy hometown

This is not the scripted Dream Day of a life I specifically pictured thirty years ago, but I had this thought as I weeded my herb garden, cleaned pasty bums of chicks and listened to current events podcasts in an attempt to straddle the razor’s edge between power of knowledge/bliss of ignorance while I turned over the scraps of my quilting station for the next project: This is exactly the life I hope I get, as my Dad used to say, “good Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise” for the next thirty years.