“I’m turning forty

And I’m freaking out,”

I’ve been telling

Anyone who will listen,

And some who won’t.

Most people smile and

Cock their heads,

Puzzled,

And say something like,

“Really?

I never would’ve thought

You

Would let it bother you.”

A few who have already

Lurched past this

Milestone

Nod and smirk,

Understanding.

Instead of the trope of

Buying a sports car

(Do people really do that?)

I quit my job and

Am going to MBA school.

“A reinvention,”

I say.

So there,

Time.

Fixing on my

Age,

All of the worst of me

Bubbles to the surface.

My vanity about my looks.

My ambition to make money.

My drive for some ego-feeding recognition.

But underneath it all

Is this:

I don’t want to die,

And I’m recently aware that

That’s actually going to happen to me.

I love life.

The complexity of the

Human experience,

Making sense of

You.

You’re utterly fascinating.

You animal,

Dressed up in the

Costume of civilization.

Everyday new

Dawning realizations about the

Human condition.

Some sad.

Some tender.

Some so kind and selfless it

Brings tears.

Somehow it hadn’t

Truly sunk in

Until the last year or so

That I ever really

Would die.

People who get old,

People who get sick,

People who die,

They’re a different species,

Like a platypus or a

Tree sloth,

Exotic,

Bizarre,

Inexplicable.

And me,

I like to plan.

I have

Cardboard boxes of

Schedules in my skull,

Neatly labelled with

Time increments.

Usually hour by

Breathless hour,

With all the activities of

Daily living

Placed in each box,

And the tops neatly closed.

Now on my fortieth birthday,

I’m taking the macro view,

And I’m dividing my schedule into

Decades and

Decades-and-a-half,

Each time increment

Labelled with an

Ascending color of the rainbow.

Now stay with me

For a minute,

‘Cause I’m about to

Get all

Hippy-dippy here,

A symptom of my dotage.

I have a vision of

Each of the

Segments of my life

Corresponding with one of the

Chakras,

The whirling energy

Centers that

Ladder up your spinal column

In some Buddhist traditions.

Age zero to five.

Red chakra.

The root at the coccyx.

Related to instinct, security, survival, potential

Like a child

New to this human form and this earth.

Age five to fifteen.

Orange chakra.

Sacrum level.

Related to relationships, emotional needs, creativity, addiction,

Which all grew in me during my childhood years.

Age fifteen to thirty.

Yellow chakra.

Solar plexus chakra.

Related to personal power, fear, anxiety, transition to complex emotions.

Anxiety, addiction, defiance and adventure typify this period of my life.

Age thirty to forty.

Green chakra.

Heart chakra.

Related to unconditional love, equilibrium, well-being, compassion for self and others.

My thirties were about recovery from addiction,

Starting a family,

Creative and career focus.

Age forty to fifty-five.

Turquoise chakra.

Throat chakra.

Related to communication and growth through expression, independence, security.

I envision this time of life as

Cultivating my voice and

Building what will leave my tiny little mark on this world.

Age fifty-five to seventy.

Blue chakra.

Third-eye chakra

In the forehead.

Related to intuition, visual consciousness, trusting inner guidance.

After building and growing,

Now taking my activities to a level of

Wisdom about this

Life and this world.

Age seventy to ninety.

Purple chakra.

Crown of the head.

A time of teaching and wisdom,

Preparing for the death of the body,

Inner wisdom.

Bonus life stage:

Age ninety to one hundred.

Pink chakra.

A point above the head.

A time for love

And only love.

I do this planning with a

Wink and a nudge to the

Powers of the universe,

Who,

I’m aware,

Could make me

Light and stardust at

Any blessed moment.

But somehow

It makes me feel better to

Envision the span of my life

In this way,

And see that I’m

Past the middle of the

Rainbow,

Into the blues.

Blues are

Sky and

Water and

Coolness.

I’ll take all those things.

I’m not

Ungrateful.

I’ve been

Blessed with

Four children,

Miracles, all.

And my mother was

Love,

Steady and unconditional.

And yet,

Mother’s Day has always been

One of my

Least favorite days of the year.

When I was younger,

Mother’s Day

Felt like a commentary on

How far I fell short

As a daughter,

As a teenager and

Young adult

I scoffed at the

Notion of Mother’s Day–

In front of my mother,

No less.

“It’s manufactured by the

Greeting card and

Floral industries

To prey on our guilt,”

I would declare in my

16-year-old attempt at

Worldly cynicism.

“Oh, honey,”

My mom would sigh.

In college, I’d usually remember to

Get her a card,

And I’d take a deep breath and

Give her a hug–

I was not

A hugger.

I’d relent and

Attend church with her on

Mother’s Day,

Squeamish as I sat in the pew

At the dogma I didn’t

Buy into,

Keeping silent during during the

Chanting of creeds and the

Singing of hymns,

Judging her raptness and joy.

I don’t want to

Self-flagellate here.

I think–

I know–

My mother loved

Being a mom to me.

There were parts of me

She treasured and was even

In awe of.

But Mother’s Day was a

Reminder of how

Unwilling I was to

Meet her emotional needs

Except at the most

Cursory level.

I don’t think of the universe or

God as punishing,

But later in my life,

When I became a mother myself,

Mother’s Day turned hard against me

And I did imagine some

Karmic justice for how I’d

Rolled my eyes through

So many Mother’s Days.

After my divorce,

My little boy spent

January to June with his dad

Overseas,

And I spent

Four Mother’s Days,

2008, 2009, 2010, 2011,

Separated from him by

Eight time zones

And an ocean.

This was also the time when

My mother was

Fading with Alzheimer’s.

So I spent those Mother’s Days

Skyping in the morning with my son,

His little face

Pixelated,

And me drinking in

Every little facial expression,

Every little movement

Of the small body that

I couldn’t touch

Over the ether.

And then I would

Hang up with him

And sit with my

Confused, dying mother.

Those Mother’s Days were

Hell.

By the time I started getting my boy

For the school year–

And therefore,

For Mother’s Day–

And had myself

Another joyful little

Boy,

And connected more deeply

With my stepkids,

My mom was

Gone.

So for me,

Mother’s Day has been about

Loss.

Which doesn’t mean I’m not

Grateful for my

Children and for my

Mother.

Gratitude is a practice that

Likes to nestle under the wing of

Other emotions,

Even and sometimes especially

Grief.

This year was lovely and

Soft and

Sad.

The weather mirrored my emotions:

Peeks of sunshine between

Torrents of rain.

There was a morning romp in

Bed with my boys,

And then a visit to my mom’s

Grave on a

Windy slope at

Fort Snelling where

I laid down a

Bouquet of pink and purple flowers and

My first boy and

My baby boy

Raced each other down

Rows of uniform

Marble headstones.

I had brought a small,

Metal heart charm

I found in my jewelry box,

Pocked and battered-looking,

A little misshapen,

And I pulled the

Thick green grass

Away from the

Base of Mom’s headstone,

And we slid the heart down the

Base of it,

Into the earth

And left it there,

Buried,

Safely protected from the

Wind.