35
today is my 35th birthday.
I've spent the day quietly puttering, nesting in my home after a week away. there were piles of laundry to wash, a suitcase to unpack and wipe down, a lazy nap to take tucked under the worn red blanket draped over the couch.
I left my phone on do not disturb all day, reveling in the soft hum of silence and the choice to respond to 75 text messages and 4 missed calls if and when I pleased.
intimacy is well boundaried.
this is a lesson I did not learn until late late late, and so now the pendulum swings opposite. some days, and especially on days like today, I rejoice in closed doors and a silent phone and no one to answer to. I relish in lingering in bed under the piled linen duvet with a wall of squashy pillows on either side. I delight in slipping a few extra dollars to the delivery-wallah dropping off takeout.
sometimes, I do not consent to being available. sometimes, it is a gift to be unseen. my birthday is usually one of those days.
35 on 35
make decisions with a nourished belly and a rested brain and a soft body. decisions made while hungry and cranky and creaky and tired are usually bad ones.
write as often as possible. by hand, typed, in the notesapp, on postits, in a journal, on whatever spiralbound notebook is closest -- writing is thinking.
read most days, and widely. gay hockey romance, literary nonfiction, autoethnographic memoirs, new yorker articles, subway graffiti poetry, smut smut smut -- it all counts.
ask for what you need or want. before you can do that, you have to know what you need or want. sometimes, it is harder to do the knowing than it is to do the asking. practice asking yourself before you ask others.
close the tabs, delete the screenshots and blurry photos, clean up the digital clutter. closing shift isn't just for kitchens; sometimes, the computer needs one too.
turn off the dang phone sometimes.
find reasons to laugh more often than reasons to cry.
cry often, when there are too many reasons to cry.
go home when you can, but be sure to come back. sometimes home is necessary and sometimes away is important.
practice discernment -- not for perfection, but for honing like a blade. is it intuition or anxiety? is it boundaries or avoidance? is it connection or desperation? is it radical or performative?
get it wrong. mess up loudly. change your mind. try again. then do it all over.
make the labor visible. ask yourself: who benefits when the labor is made invisible?
buy the thing that makes your life 10% easier, sometimes. other times, buy the thing that makes your life 10% more beautiful.
uplift the work of beloveds and comrades and co-conspirators. share their links, order their books, send people their art.
practice saying yes or no -- whichever one is harder and less frequently said.
help your neighbor shovel their car in the blizzard. drop off their packages when they're delivered to the wrong door. say hello to the uncles playing backgammon out of open cars on the sidewalk every night.
"eat food. not too much. mostly plants."
tip your super well.
say hello to the bodega guy, and also the bodega cat.
use the block and unfollow buttons liberally.
keep small bills stashed in coat pockets.
set up an altar with coffee beans, cinnamon, spare change, and a money plant. tend to it often.
cook homemade broth for sipping in the wintertime. in the summer, blend nimbu pani with a pinch of salt and a spoonful of honey.
make something by hand, the long slow tedious way. knitting, crocheting, sewing, quilting, mending -- the handwork of making and the angst of figuring it out is the point.
have good sex, if you're going to have sex. otherwise, have a radish.
go for a walk when you get stuck. nothing good comes of trying to force through the stuckness, and you probably could use the fresh air anyway.
let grief take what it needs to. mourning isn't gentle, the same way that rest isn't gentle. whoever says otherwise is lying or hasn't grieved well.
remember that behavior is a choice and identity usually isn't. when you criticize or ask for change or demand an apology, differentiate between behavior and identity. people are more than the sum of their choices, but they do choose their behavior.
differentiate between behavior and identity when you criticize yourself, too.
criticize yourself less, maybe.
call your sister back.
text your friends back.
shed the old versions of you when you need them to slither off like snakeskin. embrace the old versions of you when they have wisdom to share -- even (especially) when you don't want to hear it.
stop outsourcing your self trust to your mother, your best friend, your phone, your therapist. stop outsourcing your self trust.
give yourself the gift of asking for help before you need it.