Birthday Musing

Each birthday conjures up divergent emotions respective to the number of years I'm recognizing.  Early in life, birthdays are an opportunity for cake, ice cream, and gifts (not necessarily in that order).  By adolescence, a birthday morphs into more a rite of passage than a party and this is quite pronounced in certain cultures: A Jewish boy may become a son of the law at twelve, whereas a Maasai boy steps across the threshold of manhood as a morani at circumcision, which takes place generally around age fourteen or fifteen. In this country, we mark rites of passage by age-associated laws -- you may become a licensed driver at age 16, a legal purchaser of tobacco and registered voter at 18, and a legal consumer of alcohol at age 21 (It is unclear to many of us how and why these parameters were determined).

But what of successive birthdays beyond mid-life, whatever that is?  Speaking from firsthand experience, they seem to arrive with greater ferocity and unwelcome frequency the older I become. Now, rather than associating aging with certain legal permission, I am forced to connect birthdays with increased aches and decreased mobility. I feel as though I've turned a painful corner on my way back to the fetal position.  Added to the discomfort of aging is the aching awareness that our society places inordinate priority on youth. Opportunity for advancement in the work force becomes scant in direct proportion to one's age. And all of this occurs while the soon-to-be-decrepit's wisdom is widening and maturity deepening. 

This may be occasion for quoting from two of my favorite Whitman poems:

(To Old Age) I see in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours in the great sea.

and...

O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring ... The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these O me, O life? 

Answer. That you are here--that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Jesus Christ said that he came so that we may have life and live it to the full, so I believe I'm justified on this the 54th celebration of the day of my birth in altering both Whitman's question and his corresponding answer:

The question, O me, O Lord! no longer sad recurring--What is my purpose O me, O life, O Lord?

Answer. That You are here in me. That Your powerful play goes on, and I may contribute a verse.