Today’s my birthday. A big one. I’m not big on birthdays. They make me think too much. Let’s go back and observe…

I’m 6 years old. I look out my bedroom window for answers. Who am I? What the heck am I doing here? Where’d I come from?

The clouds and the sky and the next-door neighbor’s dog, barking at their front door, give me no answers.

Now I’m 13. I look out with the same questions, same bedroom window. I concentrate on the trees with deep intensity. The leaves turn florescent blue, the tree bark purple, the sky pink and sparkly. The answer is there – I can almost see it, feel it. My arm extends, hand reaching, reaching, but comes back empty.

At 19, I stare out that bedroom window, anxious to say goodbye to my parents’ view of life. I understand everything now. I’ve read Joyce and Woolf, Kierkegaard and Bonheoffer, Freud and Erickson.

I know all the answers…. Don’t I?

At 33 I don’t care who I am, where I came from, or what I’m doing. I’m too busy making babies, nursing babies, loving babies, and caring for my family. I’m too tired to ask any questions, much less search for answers.

I look out the window now at 48 and wonder where my babies have gone.  Off to college and their own quests.

The quiet is unnerving. What should do I do now? The swaying trees are whispering, whispering, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

And here, now, I’ve arrived to this new number on the aging chart. I dare stare out another window at hummingbirds whirring, flowers swaying, the sun winking, as I wonder:  Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

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