Otherwise, though, today is basically just another day for me. I’ve reached the time of life when birthdays don’t mean much of anything, at least not anything that you want to think about for any longer than you can help.
Ten years ago, though, my attitude was somewhat different, for I wrote these words in this space, and meant them:
Regular readers of this blog will scarcely need to be reminded that there was a time when I didn’t expect to live to see this day, or any others—but I got married, wrote an opera, and finished a biography instead of dying. Not bad for one lifetime.
No, indeed, and the past ten years have been, if not more eventful—I don’t see how that could have been possible—then very nearly so. I needn’t rehash that astonishing decade: you’ve read all about it here. Save for the loss of my mother, it was glorious in every conceivable way. But the past six months have also been pretty damned eventful, and not in a good way, either. Mrs. T and I were put through the wringer repeatedly, and we have every reason to expect stiff doses of more of the same between now and the day that the Big Call finally comes, at which time she—we, really—will be given a new start on life.
Both of us, however, know the inestimable value of what we’ve had throughout the past decade and a half, which is the gift of one another. That’s my birthday present, a gift that keeps on giving every day that I’m above ground, and there is no hour when I’m not overflowing with gratitude for it, as well as for the good friends—some old, some new, all beloved—who make the rest of my life a joy.
So I have no complaints, none whatsoever. Even when things go sour and get scary, I know I’m a lucky guy. May it stay that way, today and always.
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An excerpt from Momix’s “Opus Cactus,” choreographed by Moses Pendleton:
