Now that it is May, it’s officially my birthday month. A couple years back it was one of the best months of my life. It was so much fun planning the combined 50^th and my daughter’s 21^st birthday trip to New York City. Every time I made mention that my 50^th birthday was coming up, a participant in my fitness classes would show up next class with a card and/or a small gift. I got cheers and hoots when repeatedly stating that I felt awesome turning 50. I proclaimed that 50 was the new 50, and loved every minute of the attention I drew to myself. My daughter was actually the one who proclaimed I was really milking the whole birthday month thing. It was oddly as fun as anticipating my 21st birthday.

Several years ago, I met one of my bestie girlfriends for a trail walk. It was close to my birthday and before hugging goodbye she said, “oh, I have something for you.” It was a clay pot full of herbs. The pot had broken somewhere along the way so she had stopped and picked up a second pot to set the whole thing in. We had a laugh and a hug and a ‘happy birthday, Jo!’ moment.

I still have that starter pot of herbs. I have replaced a few plants over the years that didn’t weather the winter. I have moved on to a different pot.  Yet, I still think of the thoughtful gift from a good friend every time I pluck something out of the little garden.

The year after my most awesome birthday month ever, I cried on my birthday, a lot. My birthday never went by without a call and card from my Mom. She was gone. When my girlfriends called, I cried on their shoulder. I actually snot nose blubbered. I think I went through ½ a box of tissue that day. I really missed that phone call, yet I am sure I never really appreciated it like I should have.

As I look back on past celebrations, there really isn’t a pattern. Honey used to throw big family parties for me until I asked him to stop. Though it really disappointed my Mom, it just wasn’t how I wanted to spend my day. Some years we have made it a point to go to dinner. I spent my 40th in Las Vegas. And, I spent my 21st in Vegas. And, well, a few other years in Vegas, too. Sometimes it’s a barbecue on the patio with friends. Recently it was the Big Apple.

Life is a lot like my experience with birthdays. Sometimes there is awesome joy; sometimes there is an ugly cry. It doesn’t look the same year to year. The lesson I have learned is that I can give myself permission to break a pattern, try something new or repeat the same plan depending on the moment, so that in the end I have the time of MY life.

How do you celebrate your birthday? Leave me note. I would love to hear more about you.

I recently listened to this podcast that encourage thinking about where you grew up or have lived for years and how it has shaped who you are.

Until college, I lived on the entrance to The Loop. As I mentioned in my last post, there was a working sandpit around the corner. The road was a big circle; everybody who lived on The Loop had to pass our house coming and going.

Lesson #1: Change can be fun and exciting.

Every once in a while, a big ‘ol dump truck would rumble by. It would shake the windows. I would grab my shoes and run as fast as I could through the shortcut between houses knowing that they were going to be hauling sand away. That meant the hills would change, some cliffs would get taller, others would disappear. I was always eager to watch because it meant that our natural playground was going to get a re-arranging.

Lesson #2: Sometimes you should listen to your Mamma.

That same sand pit had a couple of abandoned houses on the lot. They were creepy. I explored the outsides with my neighborhood girlfriends. But it was a brother who pulled away a few boards and talked me into going down the basement stairs. It probably was a dare. It was damp, dark and flooded with water. As I bolted back up the stairs, fearful of being trapped, my mom’s warning to stay away pounded in my head.

Lesson #3: Accept what you cannot change.

Kids come home dirty when they play outside. In the summer we would take cardboard boxes and slide down the sand hills. In the winter if we were lucky enough to get snow (we didn’t have much in Seattle) our dad would blow up inner tubes at the local gas station and we would sled down the side of the pit. Can you imagine having sand in your socks, underwear, shoes, hair? My mom should maybe get the saint award for letting us play there day after day. St. Ginny.

Lesson #4: Life is not perfect.

One old house by The Pit eventually got cleaned up and became a rental property. A group of bikers had moved in and often partied late into the night. One summer in high school the young paperboy was cutting through the same path I had run as a kid. He found a lady face down dead in the tall weeds. Turns out the wild party included an accidental shooting that wasn’t discovered until daylight. It wasn’t the sensation that it would be today. Since school was out, most that I grew up with probably never even heard about it.

And…

Mainly what I remember about the pit was the freedom. I could always say I was going to The Pit and no one questioned where or what I was doing. As a kid I was filling old beer bottles with sand. As a tween I was poking around the abandoned houses and picking blackberries. As a teenager it became a place to smoke a cigarette and hang out with other neighborhood kids around a bonfire.   It is where I  learned to ride a horse.

I might have even had my first kiss at The Pit.