Well, here I am just sort of dangling from the precipice of my final day of being 40 years old, waiting for sinister old Mr. Midnight to pry my fingers loose and drop me, ready or not, into 41, where I'll no longer just be "40" but will rather be "in my forties" which seems a good deal older when you say it aloud, although those two states are really only separated by a thin wall represented by the narrowest hand on my metal and canvas, still analog because I insisted on it wristwatch I received as a Father's Day present earlier this year, somewhere between half a week in the Smoky Mountains and our return to the swampy lowlands, our squat brick cottage, a very excited terrier, and two of the most discontent felines ever to pad their way across the soft green surface of the coastal plains.
And I'll admit it: 40 was my year. 40 was the year we finally purchased the property we intend to be our forever home. It was one of the most decorated years of my career, thanks to some amazingly talented, dedicated, and hardworking youngsters who cared enough about the art, the work, each other, and me to put together a string of some of the strongest shows I've ever worked on. This year I lost 15 pounds and gained 6 of those back, which isn't great but isn't a disaster either. 40 was the culmination of hard work in a lot of different areas.
And at the same time, 40 was abundant with blessings that were beyond my control but for which I'm just as thankful. A wonderful student of mine named me STAR teacher for Cook County Schools this year, an honor I will never forget. I climbed mountains looked out over valleys. I walked among ancient ruins in Mexico. I wept as stood in Hemingway's writing room for the first time. I sat with my parents, my brother, and his family around the table that once belonged to my wife's late father, all of us connected through food prepared by loving hands in fashions old, new, and somewhere in between. I sat in church and watched my wife teach my son to sing into a microphone with the praise band, just close enough to be heard, but not so close to destroy the balance of voices. I was invited to join our local community band, where I've strengthened old friendships and forged new ones, all while beating out the strong rhythm of a Sousa march or tapping out Latin sounds with my bare fingers against cured hide, playing new music on drums whose design has barely changed in thousands of years.
40 had indeed been one of the best years of my life, and it's tempting to hold on a little tighter, letting uncertainty twist my fingers into talons as they dig into the cliffside. But it is with faith, hope, immense gratitude, and a love for the life I have led this far that I will instead let go, dropping into 41 with the confidence of a toddler being tossed into the air by a loving and possibly overzealous uncle. 41 will catch me. I will look up into 41's eyes knowing I can't crawl back up the the cliff to 40. And we will both laugh until we're out of breath at what was and is and will one day be. And it will all be ok.
RSS Feed