before facebook i...

Read books
Looked at the sky
Cooked cakes
Wrote letters
Knitted jumpers
Had more time
Walked
Kept a journal
Hunted out information for myself
Tidied up
Grew vegetables
Made cards
Reflected on who I am and where I am going
Weeded the garden
Had coffee with friends
Dusted the house
Wrote a blog
Borrowed books from the library
Had original thoughts

Happy Birthday to me!

Another new year, another birthday almost immediately afterwards.  So much opportunity for reflection in two short days.

I've had a lovely day.  Frank put a present out for me before I awoke, we went to the raspberry farm for lunch, the boy wrote me several sweet birthday notes and so many friends have sent me cards, gifts and lovely messages on facebook.

Here's the thing though.  Birthdays feel a little self indulgent to me.  I'm not that special and I've had enough birthdays to make the day feels like it's just a day.  I indulge myself by asking that I not have to cook... then spend the day feeling a bit guilty about how much money gets spent on eating out. (No one else cooks much around here)

I feel the love from other people, so it's not anyone else's problem.  It's me.

I'm still figuring out if I'm healthily humble and realistic about my place in the world, or if my birthday discomfort is yet another faulty signal from my busted sense of self worth.  Maybe it's both? 

I remember someone asking why we celebrate birthdays - it's not like they are any great achievement.  Stay alive for another 365 days and you've made it back to where you started, another birthday.  They are kind of inevitable.  Someone else told me that nobody in one of the more populous countries of the world thinks they are specially chosen to change the world and leave a mark - they are one of more than a billion and they are tiny.  Maybe my birthday discomfort has grown from these snatches of conversation - I'm no great person for surviving another 365 years, and in a world of seven billion and counting, I'm just one of the crowd.

I don't want to sound ungrateful - I've loved every message and greeting and wish and card and restaurant meal.  They have given me a sense of connection and place.  Thank you for every bit of love and care you have sent.  I'm feeling the love.  (But I did three loads of washing, stewed the rhubarb, made a cake and folded the washing to keep my feet on the ground.  It's not all about me, even on my birthday.)

Happy New Year!

After four years of neglect, I am still able to access my blog account.  Piles of spam aside, keeping the same email address and mobile number has worked for me on this occasion. 

Hello happy chatter, and welcome back to the world of blogging.

It remains to be seen how long I stick with this, but one of my intentions for 2018 is to get back into writing.  I've missed it.  A personal journal might be a better place for most of my jumbled thoughts, but I like writing with readers in mind, so I'm officially kicking off again.

And since it's new year, here are some of my other intentions:

- have a go at yoga (a suitably broad intention - even if I just watch one YouTube vid... I've had a go)
- use less plastic (I've gotten a bit slack in this department.  I plan to sew some calico bags and get serious about reducing my plastic bag usage)
- clear out stuff from the recesses of my mind our overflowing cupboards
- practice more self-compassion (my revelation of 2017.  I want more to be revealed)
- mark the progress of time and the effect of life more deliberately (write, write, write...)
- be a nicer person

I'm sure a few other intentions have formed in my mind over the last few days, but alas, I have forgotten them.  They'll come to me again...  maybe by the time they do, I will have already worked my way through the above list.  (Kidding - that cupboard clearing is going to take all year at my pace)

Anyway, Happy New Year.  May 2018 be productive and fruitful and uplifting.