On the 26th, I redeemed my birthday coffee from Starbucks, ordered a fish jun plate in the nearby stall, and drove to a park. Aside from wanting to finish my writing for my son, I wanted to do something for myself, too.
It was not until lately – when I started growing gray hair and feeling body aches – that I stepped back and asked myself honestly: have I cared enough for my own wellbeing? That question bothers me.
Since I turned 26, my birthday has never been mine anymore. My son Thymon celebrates his the following day, and so it has been my practice to put mine in the back-burner. Last year, however, on my 35th birthday – I made it a decision to do something for myself, at least once every year. I am calling that self-care.
The funny thing about me was I never did celebrate my birthday. Ever since as a kid, I always feel guilty doing something for myself. I suppress more than I express. I feel things deeply, usually for others, at the expense of mine. I analyze and edit even before I could communicate. I thought that was being considerate. And I carried that thinking through adulthood.
It was not until lately – when I started growing gray hair and feeling body aches – that I stepped back and asked myself honestly: have I cared enough for my own wellbeing? That question bothers me. And it will probably take me another 36 years to learn to care fully for my being – all of it. Slowly, I am reminding myself that self-care is not selfish. Slowly, I am learning to be more honest about my needs and wants. Slowly, I am becoming more gracious to myself, as well.
It was gloomy. I turned the radio on after parking by a tree overlooking Salt Lake. I took my time. I savored the kimchi and the fish jun. I stared at the soccer field while reflecting on something I read earlier. I smiled as I heard the chuckles of some state workers having lunch next to their parked cars not too far from mine. Their hoot of laughter warred with my car stereo and the flock of birds chirping in chorus. I shut off the car’s engine.
Then came the rain, and my view began to blur. The cloudburst was ready to break into a trot. I turned the car’s engine on again and let the wipers do its job. I started writing while the wipers played tap dance with the rain. They seemed to be having fun, sending an invitation for a respite. I smiled, readied for reverse, and sped off. It was a happy birthday for me.
”Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous – to poetry.” – T. Mann
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