25, 40, 50, 70. Everybody has their number. The hill that is too difficult to climb. The cake with too many candles.
Mine was 50, and I felt every year. And what did I have to show for the years? ...not much.
I felt like crawling under my bed and disappearing, but...
I could have felt sorry for myself, but what would that have accomplished? 50 was more than just a number. It demanded to be acknowledged. Could I... Could I celebrate it?
I needed help. I made a list of friends who handled their age well and told them I was turning 50. I told them I was becoming a 'wise woman' and invited them to join me at the community labyrinth. "Birthday presents aren't necessary. Please bring a word I can carry with me through the next part of my life."
The day was sun-filled. At the entrance to the labyrinth, I handed them a copy of my poem...
Mother Mary
Photo by Crystal Favel
On Reaching Forty
Maya Angelou
Other acquainted years
sidle
with modest
decorum
across the scrim of toughened
tears and to a stage
planked with laughter boards
and waxed with rueful loss
But forty
with the authorized
brazenness of a uniformed
cop stomps
non-knocking
into the script
bumps a funky grind on the
shabby curtain of youth
and delays the action
Unless you have the inborn
wisdom
and grace
and are clever enough
to die at
thirty-nine.
Every year...
on the 11th month
on the 11th day
on the 11th hour
I will remember them.
As I meditated on Remembrance Day this year, I solemnly pledged to seek peace within myself and the world.
On this blog in November...
Sunday, November 17
Not Forgotten
A tribute for adults about a Mayne Island friend.
Sunday, November 24
Carrots
A children's story about Mariam Horse and her bountiful garden.
Sharing my author journey...
Be cautious...
Before submitting my work, I conduct thorough research on
