Birthday

This morning, I awoke in a forest in Mississippi. It was forty years ago today that I was born in Saudi Arabia. Dhahran, to be exact.

I was grateful I didn’t wake to a scorching sun as I crawled out of my one-man tent this morning. I was grateful I didn’t wake to the 600 mosquitoes and moths that had swarmed around me last night. I was grateful I didn’t wake in Louisiana. I was less grateful that I awoke in Mississippi and not anywhere remotely close to friends and family.

I grabbed my cigarettes, walked to the edge of the nearby lake, and let my brain ease into the morning as I looked at the grass, the fallen trees, the murky water with small brown beetle-like insects skimming the surface. Campers milling about in their RVs behind me.

Last night, as I drove along the dark and hilly road that is Hwy 84, I reflected briefly on my life over the past forty years. It’s been nice, I suppose. I don’t really have any regrets. I do hate that I wasted my twenties married to that woman. But apart from that, it’s been okay. A childhood in the desert, traveling around the world, private schools, college, the birth of not one but two beautiful, brilliant, well-adjusted boys, a good family, good friends. I hit a marked level of success in the corporate world, up until I lost interest in it.

I have a nice collection of memories over the years. People. Places. Things. I saw them, I knew them, I loved them. Most of them. I’ve seen a lot of beauty in this life. I’ve seen a good deal of this life. I paid attention to most of it. I thought there would be more cheese sandwiches, though. I like cheese sandwiches.

Photography has been nice. Since I left music, it’s been my creative outlet. I remember those solemn days in college, sitting on the bench in front of that perfectly-tuned grand piano in my professor’s basement office. Dead plants lining the left side of the piano, a desk in the back corner. Chopin. Holding a tennis ball, form work.

It bothers me somewhat that, in this life, I will never be a 16 year old girl wandering through the neon haze of Tokyo, my childhood home. I will never have that experience. I think about that on occasion. There are too many lives, too many possibilities, too much in this world to do and see. Too much to experience. And there is not enough time.

Some things may not be possible for me to do in this life (see 16yo girl in Tokyo reference), but I want to do more. I want more out of life. I want more experiences.

The town church bells rang a moment ago as I walked out of the county library to smoke a cigarette. Two verses of “What a Friend we Have in Jesus”, followed by “Amazing Grace.” (I know these songs from my childhood. Singing them in a Muslim land. Singing them in Baptist churches throughout the deep South. Vacation Bible Schools. Small wooden tables, smaller wooden chairs.) As if on cue, a large dog in a coat of thick white fur barks as it runs past me. It continues to bark as it runs alongside the sun-weathered black pickup truck driving up the hill to my right. Up the hill to where to the church bells ring.

It’s time to get back on the road. I need to find a good cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll buy myself a cupcake.

Happy birthday, me.

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