I hate my birthday. I’ve never understood the point. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never enjoyed it. Ill mental health plays a part—yes, even as a very young child. Perhaps growing up with little and seeing how overstretched gift-givers could become and materialistic and spoiled behaviour from receivers and givers alike added to this discomfort with such anniversaries. I’ve never really desired ‘things’.
As a child, I felt like a burden. They were so young, and my grandfather’s death fast followed my birth. And I feel for that. ‘One in and one out’ is what they say, and something unwanted took the place of my mother’s father. Me. To celebrate my birthday? An obligation instead of a celebration is what I felt. So, I’ve never liked my birthday.
I’m a mother. And birth merits celebration. Life merits gratitude. Existence is miraculous. The coming together and multiplying of cells to form new life? It’s astounding. Wanted or not. Accidental or with the desired purpose.
Without mine, my children would not exist. I acknowledge my birth for them. Life is the gift.
Anyway, this year, I hung out with Paul and the smalls in a park, reading quietly and feeding crackers to crows while the kids played. And we enjoyed ice cream and The Little Mermaid together—a magical summer release.
Appreciate the little moments. They are the big things. That’s what makes up this chaotic life. The seemingly small is where the magick resides.
Cheers to surviving another day. )O(
Clan Witch & Word Refinery 