I've been trying to write this post for a week. On the eve of my thirtieth birthday I am more consumed by my reflections of the past three decades of my life than I have ever been. I've been chronologically acknowledging and appreciating every piece of my life. My accomplishments and my defeats. The various stages of my years, from the hazy memories of childhood to the tumultuous years of teenage-hood. The freedom of my (ahem) "roaring" early twenties and the giant steps into motherhood, into family and commitment. The lives that I have lived, the people who I have known and the future that lies ahead.
I'm sitting here now, with a cup of coffee and the sound of children in the other room. Puzzle pieces scattered on the floor, dishes in the sink and a heart full of dreams and desires. Thirty years and I have done a lot. Thirty years and it isn't enough. As my children grow I can feel myself unfurl from the safety of the nest. As I push them gently into the future I can feel the push myself. Because there is more out there. I've had thirty years, but I want sixty more.
Thirty years, and I am somehow being reborn again. There is a new quake in my heart, a stirring in my head and an energy in my soul. I am thankful that I am not looking back and grasping for what once was. I am steadily determined and willful that I will not go into these years mourning something that isn't really lost.
Instead, I will celebrate all that I have achieved in thirty years and accept the things that have helped shape who I am. I will acknowledge the longing to want and create more, and happily give in to the desire that life is for living. And I want to go on and get me some more.
Thirty years. We've only just begun.
