The Twenty-Fifth Year

The Year I Turned 25, I

taught a bellydance class.

got my first pair of glasses.

went to New Orleans and fell in love with her.

voted against the first black president.

took in a stray, crazy, dog-baby.

became an organic gardener/farmer.

conceived Shekhinah.

began to figure out where I was heading.

reconnected with old friends.

made new best friends.

broke out of my shell.

started a blog.

changed job-homes.

bought a Mac.

realized my husband was an alcoholic.

swore off family.

realized the incredible burden/mixed blessing of biraciality.

began investigating my relationship with God.

redefined beauty. 

went to the opera.

bought a grown-up purse.

realized my style.

began to learn.

understood how special Grandfathers are.

fell in love with my husband again.

tasted gelato for the first time.

broke down and tried Gefilte fish (not as disgusting as it looks).

celebrated Passover, observed Sabbath, and attended an Aufruf.

found three sterling hairs at my temple.

reveled in the bliss of a quiet cafe.

looked behind me and didn't see much.

hosted wandering musicians under my roof.

drank a can of PBR all by myself (not recommended).

And in the last hour of my 25th year, I felt the passing of it keenly. 

I sat awake, in a candlelight vigil for that year, that would never come again.

I wondered if I had truly lived it, with all the strength of my being.

As the dark faded to a grey dawn, I vowed to myself to make the next year

even better.