Today I officially turn 62-years of age.

Every Sunday, my siblings, dad, uncle, cousins… meet on Zoom. Last week, one cousin stated that this year - soon - he’ll turn 70. I asked what special thing he’d like to do to mark this momentous occasion. His reply: “wake up”.

My 92-year-old dad has Congestive Heart Failure (CHF). For those who don’t know about this heart disease, basically, the heart doesn’t work efficiently; fluid build-up is common; it can feel like you have a hard time catching your breath; it’s exhausting; and, although one can live for many years with CHF, one can only do so by managing it well.

My sister-in-law is a retired nurse. I should say: she was retired. Nowadays, she nurses Dad full-time. My sister-in-law is a gem. She + my brother are helping Dad manage CHF. The Covid-19 pandemic is not helping, though. Dad’s not getting out as much; he’s losing muscle mass; he’s slowing down more + more. Dad moves slowly. He speaks slowly. He remains, for the most part, quiet + calm.

During our family gatherings, we can see Dad remaining, for the most part, quiet + calm. I think maybe he’s quiet because he gave up trying to get a word in edgewise. It’s tough for those of us who don’t have CHF to get a word in, with our lively, (relatively) young group of whippersnappers. Our ‘relatively young’ group of whippersnappers are mostly in our 60’s.

Some family members are quieter than others. Dad is usually the quietest, listening. Every so often, when there’s a large enough gap in the jabbering family banter, Dad gets a word in edgewise. He can be a subtly funny guy. When there’s a calling + an opening, Dad’s wit shines through the crack. After my cousin’s bemoaned remark, that in celebration of turning 70 his one-dream is: “to wake up”, Dad - slowly + calmly (with the perfect delivery of a well-polished stand-up comic) remarked: “it’s a piece of cake".

Every year that we (humyns) are still in the same physical body, it (this physical body) gets a year older. I didn’t quite figure this out - that there’s no turning back - until my 33rd birthday. The realization felt jolting. For some years after the initial shock, I thought the aging process to be sly + unfair. I had spent so much of my youth waiting to grow up - wanting to quicken the mechanism of time - only to learn that, once the desired age is finally attained, the damn clock doesn’t stop!

Since reaching Six-0h, my attitude about aging has taken a turn. Age now feels like a marker. It feels like: I’ve survived. It feels like: I’ve earned this. I’m calmer. Every breath is fuller.

On average, a person at rest takes about 16 breaths per minute. This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year.

According to the Herald Tribune, today - at age 62 years - I have taken 521,395,200 breaths. This calculated number is “on average”, “at rest”. In reality, my breath count could be higher; it could be lower.

I was super active for a lot of my 62 years. I played tennis like I was possessed, panted my way through the countryside - running, hiking, swimming, bicycling up + down the hills of Manchester, NH and Brattleboro, VT. I taught floor + water aerobics for well over 3 decades. That alone should have increased my breath count!

I danced… from the time I was a child through to pre-sitting at a computer too much. And let me tell you… I could dance! I could dance like an ever-ready-bunny, on speed, for 4-hours, non-stop, drenching my clothes, four times over. Maybe, because of those times, my breath count is higher than the average.

Or, the count could be less. Between activities, I tended to hold my breath. I was nervous about fitting-in, being loved, being accepted, being connected… about not being seen + heard… about being seen + heard… about being judged + criticized… about taking up space… about being “bad” or harmful… about breathing in someone else’s air.

When I was little, I watched my mom use my brother as her ‘whipping boy’. That’s what my brother, sister + I called how she treated him. Her bitter, hurtful words + actions made me nervous. The fact that she was smart, creative, could be so funny + loving, and was so pretty to look at - juxtaposed with her biases + ability to be unforgivingly cruel - was confusing, and made me nervous. Many adults made me nervous - lewd men, strict women, twisted people who didn’t remember how to be authentic, humble, + caring.

As a teenager, I was most nervous about becoming my mother. I figured that, growing up with her, I’d unconsciously internalize her narcissism. Come to find out, I did internalize my mother… my father… my culture. Come to find out, I have a lot of unlearning to do. And, growing up (imperfect) in a culture that rewarded ‘perfection’ - that made me more nervous, that made me hold my breath. So you see, because of our plastic-fake, cookie-cutter-house, broken culture - and all that anxiety - my breath count could be lower than average.

There were times, though, that I danced so hard + so fast, Spirit + I were one. There were times when my inner sacred masculine, like a Māori warrior-dancer, held the space for his divine feminine counterpart to spin like a whirling dervish top - times when the divine masculine + divine feminine in me danced together as one expanded being. There were times, dancing, when I felt free. At those times, I breathed freely. Maybe those times made up for the times I held my breath.

These days, Mindfulness meditation helps me breathe deep, clear, full, quality breaths. Maybe my breath count is ok now.

I’ve been thinking + feeling, writing + talking, playing + working for 62-years to get to this moment. And now, here I am. My breathing is right. I’m in just the right spot.

I’m in no rush to grow up. I’m not confused by the process of aging. I feel no need to slow it down. I’m clear about our culture being broken. I forgive us for being in a dynamic picture. This ‘62’ is a bit of a ‘Goldilocks’ moment.

Then there’s sex. Do 62-year-olds talk about sex? Yeah, sure. Let’s.

I am not a casual person. Me being what people call “intense” is not for a lack of trying to be ‘simple’, ‘superficial’… ‘casual’. I have tried.

I had been ‘single’ for long bouts between relationships. During the last ‘bout’, I settled into my single-status in a way I hadn’t before. I felt no longing - I mean, none. I believed that I was ‘over’ being interested in a partnership/ long-term relationship, and, quite frankly, felt relieved that the longing was gone. I believed my thoughts that: this lack of want is age-related. I reasoned: I have no hormonal drive, thus no drive to be in a relationship. This is it, I thought, I have arrived in my wise crone years. I made the emphatic, final statement to my friends that: I’m done, finally - I am done with (romantic) relationships.

Then, someone showed interest in me, + I checked him out. After a few times being together, I wanted more. Just three dates and… I was wrong: the drive was back.

Since becoming a life coach, I hired a life coach for myself. It’s a good practice to do this. After three dates with “new guy”, I told my coach: “I’m trying so hard to be easy-going”. I liked new guy. I wanted the new relationship with new guy to grow, to last. Sex with new guy was SO good.

Being ‘intense’ (or, using the reframe: ‘growth-oriented’ + ‘conscious’) had worn down previous guys. My first husband had said to me: “I don’t see us ever sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, reading the paper”. He wanted me to be there, quietly, happily… not making a fuss, mostly unattended to. I wanted to be all that for him. I tried to be all that. I just got… bored + frustrated. In order to be someone else’s perception of ‘easy to be with’, I must ‘try so hard’ (to hold my true self back). It didn’t work. It doesn’t work.

Jiddu Krishanmurti said:

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

So true.

My life coach said: “Why are you trying to be something you’re not? If you have to pretend to be something else with this person, they’re not who you want to be with.”

So true. So simple. Such an applicable thing to say about every moment of my life that I’ve tried to veer off my path.

I am the expert of my own life. I am a specialist in the path I’ve been following. I’ve contemplated, researched, + toiled for many hours every day on the material Spirit gives me via passion. This culmination of effort feels… revolutionary! I am part of the revolution I’ve been waiting for! I am a revolutionary!

It is my birthday. I am 62 years of age. I have earned this. I deserve to take deep, full, peaceful breaths. We all deserve this. I deserve to be exactly who I am in every given moment, and to be given the space to continue to grow. We all deserve this.

When I listen, Source says: you must be who you are.

Each of us is being called to step up to our own plate with more authenticity. We’re being called to feel more connected to our nature - connected with all of the planet’s Nature, the sky’s Nature, the water’s Nature. We’re being called to adopt a more sustainable, inclusive, collectivist culture. We’re being called to sink deeply into compassion.

Today, 62 feels just right. I am imperfect + dynamic, and I’m ok with this. I’m ok with my woo-woo ways with Michelle + Barry and others ‘from the beyond’. I’m ok with being Ash’s advocate. I’m ok with being Mom to Michael. I’m ok loving my friends + family. I’m ok mentoring, teaching, coaching + facilitating around energy + movement + meditation + transformation. Someday, when the person is ‘right’ for me, I’ll be ok with sex, too :).

Today, I hope you feel ok about where you’re at, too. I’m glad we’re on this broken, dynamic planet together. Happy Birth Day to us!