Day 1: The early hours of a new year

Yesterday was my birthday. I am thirty. It was a nice day actually. Very warm with a nice breeze. Although I don't much care for the blistering heat this time of the year affords us here, I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable it was. My day started out as it usually does during the summer.

Between happy birthday phone calls and quick checkups on my Facebook page to see the many well wishes from friends and acquaintances, my husband brought our car to pass our drive-clean test (with crossed fingers). Of course we waited until the very last minute since we were expecting having to pay for repairs. Well, wouldn't you know it? The damn thing actually passed! Happy birthday to me! So, we proceeded to the mandatory license plate renewal. Yay. Fun times. But this is how most birthdays are after 25. And that's fine. I don't mind a quiet get together with friends. Actually I much prefer that. The long weekends of birthday debauchery don't last forever. That is more of the honeymoon phase of birthdays. As you get older, birthdays mean something completely different. They are more a time to reflect on your passed year and what you are expecting for the next one. And then it happens. It is like a knot in the pit of your stomach waiting to swallow you from the inside out. You are not sure what is happening because it starts to creep up on you every year in your late twenties, menacing, it takes a juicy bite of all your regrets and leaves you with the taste of bile lingering on the tip of your tongue... because you should be grateful, content, proud of what you have done and how far you have come. But if we are being honest here, although we do feel the enticing plea of our own positivity at looking at the glass half full, we can't help but weigh our progress according to certain cultural---and dare I say it, ugh--mainstream standards. I have never been one to do what was expected of me. I've always striven to be true to myself. Integrity is important. Even after all my years of walking to the beat of my own drum, I can't help but get callouses on my heels and blisters on my toes. So why all this pressure at thirty? What is it about this number that makes people, even me nervous? Is it the public pressure put on us from an early age to know what we want to be, who we want to be and be what we have always dreamed to become? How does one number manage to have so many implications? Some of you are probably thinking that something as trivial as the numbers tacked onto the years of your life experience are merely trivial. You are right. It should be. Even so, there is something uncanny about changing decades. We can't help but take stock. And yes, many of us are content... but this is not just about being content. Not for me. I yearn to learn more and understand better the world in which I live. For some, the 'content' button is just not part of our genetic makeup.

First, I should probably make something very clear: I am happy. I have a wonderful husband, a supportive family and fantastic friends. I am a practicing visual artist and part-time teacher. I had a truly life-altering education and I owe much of my growth to some exceptional mentors. I have met many people who will forever leave a mark on my soul. I have learned through many years of being myself, to learn who I am. But still... there is that annoying tap-tap tapping on my biological door. The clock is ticking and we must be honest. As fast as ten years have passed from the age of twenty to the age of thirty, the next decades of my life will roll along with a fury. So the most responsible and rational thing to do is plan. But something is different now when I hear that word: plan. Hmmm. It is simple enough to write out my dreams; weigh the pros and cons, assess logically what my next step should be. But that is only theory. Like most people of our generation, my parents have always encouraged me to follow my heart's desires. We are told that if we work hard and want it enough, it will happen. So we put our theories into practice. Unlike our baby- boomer parents, we have more options. Too many options. We work hard but unfortunately, things don't happen in a straight line. Like the roots that keep us grounded to our past, our future is a web of tangled possibilities. Sure you can go the safe route and have a vacuum-sealed meal of a life. You can opt for the cookie-cutter package. If you fit this example, this blog may not be for you. No, this is for the many of us who feel we have not yet "got there" are "on our way there", just trying to "find what's out there" and for the few who have the guts to admit it.

Besides envy, the only other feeling most of us would never dream to admit to others, let alone ourselves is that we feel---another ugly word-- unsuccessful. For shame! If you happen to find yourself fantasizing what your life would have been like had you chosen to go abroad that summer instead of being responsible and taking that part-time crap job at the local diner. I'm sure by now, you are thinking that success is relative. I could not agree more. BUT, let's not forget, this is about becoming thirty. When you think of what you 'should' have at thirty and you realize that you don't put value into mainstream ideals, well you can sometimes feel lost. Of course, we are our worst enemies. We judge ourselves much too harshly most of the time. And this is about overcoming that.

My most passionate years were my twenties. I would cry with delight at the beauty captured and developed under my eyes in the darkroom. I would sit and muse for hours about philosophies, theories and ideas that I found fascinating and still do. Although I still do these things, something has changed. The way I feel about it has changed, I have changed. As you get older, the fire no longer rages but burns more steadily and flickers and spits once in a while. This has been the hardest thing for me to come to terms with. At the closing of my twenties, the things that once where the center of my life are being challenge. And it is terrifying. The one thing I do know for sure is that I am an artist. What I will do with that is still yet to be determined. That is the unstable path I chose. I have many possibilities. The hardest part is choosing one. And this brings me to the purpose of these writings. For too many years, I have been wondering and wandering. I have procrastinated with some projects and abandoned others. This year, in honour of this convoluted age which we so lovingly refer to as "dirty 30", I want to return to writing. I have always written; stories, thoughts and especially poetry have been my way of making sense of the world. I have grown a lot from my years of creating with words and I want to find that balance again, an inner peace. As a visual artist, I have always striven to create works of art that communicate to the viewer and help them live through certain emotions. I have been keeping to myself for too long. There are many changes I hope to bring to my life and I am hoping that committing to writing everyday will be able to serve as a vehicle to encourage me to break free from personal restraint. If I strike a chord within any of you while doing it, bonus!