It’s strange that this is how it is–

that we are born,

first torn from our mothers, then from our homes.

Then, we are floating the rest of our lives, belonging to nowhere & nothing;

propelled on a search

to pair again

with a place or person who will return us

to the same belonging as

the womb.

(Maybe, the grave.)

Today I am 39, and I am relishing the transition of a decade into the next. My father used to say he’d be dead by 40. Then 45. Then 50. At some point, he relinquished his dream of dying young. I’m not sure of the impetus for his proclamation, but that didn’t stop me from mimicking him– I’d be dead by 25, 27, 30. I also gave up on the notion of dying young for the sobering reality that it is for only the good, and I was not yet good, but willing to try by my mid-30s. I am still not there, and I suspect may not be until well into my 90s– at least that is what I keep hinting to the Universe.

I don’t resent the extra time like my dad did– and maybe does. He was wanting to get to the next part– the Heaven part, where everything is perfect and the annoyances of mosquitoes and people he doesn’t like are sequestered in a basement of hellfire while he enjoys an eternity of blissful nothing-on-his-mind. His version of heaven is my hell, aside from the agreement of mosquitoes. I like the mistakes made, and I’ve only had time to make 39 years worth of them. And I’m coming to like the people I don’t like as I kindly get out of my own way to realize that returning to the womb is not a matter of isolating myself in a serene Zen of ocean views on a yoga mat– though that is what I got this morning. It is also the interruption of that serenity with a phone call from my mother on her morning walk in the woods with her dogs, calling to make sure she is one of the first to wish me a happy birthday, even though we hardly talk otherwise. It is also the interruption of a dog with diarrhea from drinking too much sea water on our morning run. It is also not getting coffee til almost noon and feeling the headache creep in. It is also a surprise phone call from David & Tim who serenade in full piano and voice on the other side of the line. Of a voicemail from Ann singing Happy Birthday with the same joy that she and Tom used to, before he moved on to his final belonging. My search for belonging has brought me here, to the ping of my phone and the annoyance of a dog who shakes the camper at night from her running dreams, keeping me from a full night’s sleep for days. I have built a whole life out here by trying to find the comfort of returning to a place I can and will never go again. And I am trying to see the mix of it not as a transience from one place to the next, but as the point of it, really.

Maybe that’s the difference between my dad and me. That while he eagerly waits to return to a state of blameless bliss, I have accepted that I never will, and am taking my time in the transition between the womb and the grave. Between my 30s and my 40s. Between one sip of water to the next. Between this breath, and this one. And in the luxurious waiting, I have made a home here. It’s not the one I asked for, but one I dreamed of, way back, before my eyes saw first light.

This is how it is–

that we are born,

torn from our mothers, and then our homes,

and we are left floating until we find each other,

and build a womb again–

only to be propelled to the next place

and the next place,

floating and rebuilding until

we are not floating,

but belonging

again and again and again.