Big Age Reflections.

"Tonainthisdecade” is the name I gave this page, with every intention of chronicling the decade that has been my twenties. I never came around to it. Not enough, at least. Those twenties end in about 12 days now. With that in mind, I’ve been reflecting, ergo writing.

I write in a bid to understand my mind and also to document the feeling of this time. I have been asking older people if they remember how they felt when they turned thirty. None of them remembers. I understand that I am probably more prone to self-reflection than the next person, so I am hoping to record this for when the next soon-to-be thirty-year-old asks me.

Maybe time is just a Concept we created in an effort to exercise control over the universe. Still, it’s how we mark the passing of time. For three decades, I have existed. I have been here, and in many ways, I am awestruck by that knowledge. So I stare off into the distance on my commutes, thinking over the years…

Sometimes I feel like I’m standing somewhere really high, looking down over every choice, every good thing I think I did, every not-so-great choice, every dream that came to be, the ones abandoned, all the ones I tried to grab at and fell just a little short. I try to look upon my errors, conscious and unconscious, with indulgence. I hold my faith in one palm and my integrity or perceived goodness in the other. I look upon them as though foreign, unknown to me things. It’s like looking through foggy glass, like they are mine, they belong to me but also, do they? I also examine my stubbornness, my anger, my pride and my hurt. I examine them as if I were someone apart.

I’d say it feels like being in the middle of a metamorphosis. For me at least. The result of a number of things. Achieving some of your dreams but no longer being the 14-year-old who wanted those things, and conversely, failing at some of them and feeling like 19-year-old you is being let down. Living through a few of my fears, a torn central connection, a reconstruction of faith and a wilting belief in absolutes and certainties. Everything really does “depend.” It feels like I know nothing for sure, like I lost hold of my identity, and I don’t quite know how to show up in the world. Not in a sad way, but like I am morphing and haven’t quite shifted from one state into the other, and I’m floating somewhere in the middle. The world is unsteady feet, unstable steps, booby traps and leaning into the familiar until one day, hopefully soon, the ground steadies under my feet.

However, in an effort not to sound completely lost and unknowledgeable, I do know some things as earned by the soon-to-be Badge. For instance, I know what Love feels like, not as a permanent and lasting feeling, but in the moments when it feels alive to me.

It’s alive when one of my best friends carries me fancy coffees every time she travels. It’s my sister leaving me notes reminding me to water my flowers and learning all my favourite songs on guitar so she can play them for me. It’s the friend who likes everything I post, however mundane.

It’s alive in the brother who tells me he looks up to me even when it feels unearned. When he knocks at my door to ask about my day, it’s alive when he buys the chicken he hates, and I love just because it makes me happy.

It’s the friend who calls me every morning just to talk on her commute to work, it’s the friend who picks up the calls so I can use her to get through ordinary tasks that are harder to do alone, it’s the friend who buys you the birthday dress just because she wants be involved, the same one who texts and calls to keep up with you even while on her postpartum journey. Love is the friend who hates your parents because you can’t. It’s also the friend who knows your heart and mind.

Love is the sister who is almost too invested in your choices, it’s laughing with your friend until your belly aches, it’s dancing to old music with old friends, it’s gossiping with them. It’s being heard before you speak, it’s picking out hair and nail colours and going on walks. It’s the Uncle who teaches you how Love is expressed. It’s the dad who steps up and the mum who waits up for you.

It’s alive in me too. It’s alive when I wait for it to pass, even when it passes like a kidney stone. It’s continuing to think I am pretty special despite evidence to the contrary. It’s in collecting the things that bring me joy, hoarding them for when I need them the most, it’s in picking up the phone instead of closing the curtains. It’s giving myself a warm shower at the end of a long day. It’s raging against the dying of the Light.

It doesn’t have to be permanent, perfect or grandiose for it to matter. That’s what I know of it.

I hope I write again before Thirty. I think I will, hopefully, in less disjointed thoughts and writing. More artsy and articulate, but if not, Happy Thirtieth Birthday, Tonatonzzz.