Family lore has it that I was born in a blizzard. My father’s grocery store was across from the hospital. I can imagine him traipsing back and forth in the snow, probably sick with worry as was his way, his work apron underneath his winter coat, his goulashes open and flapping. I can imagine my parents taking me home from the hospital later in the week, cautiously holding me above the snow drifts, as my mother once told me.
Fast-forward six-and-a-half decades.
The snow outside this morning is moderate, just a few inches covering the land, trees heavy with overnight frost. The scene reminds me strangely of the picture on this blog, which stole my heart with its familiarity.
I wake into the stillness of our room, interrupted by an occasional dog-snore-wheeze, at 3:20, not with youthful enthusiasm about the day but with a quiet acceptance.
Yep, awake for good. 3:20 a.m. No big deal.
Maybe that’s my sixty-fifth year manta: no big deal.
So, what do I know now, on this, the anniversary of my birth?
I know that, no matter what happens, no matter what a BIG DEAL it is, in the bigger picture, it really isn’t a big deal.
I know that, no matter the form or challenge life does take, one day at a time, I will find my way through.
I know that I am surrounded by protection and care, no matter what is happening. No matter how much I forget this, this is the truth of my life.
I know that—when all is said and done—I’m committed to relaxing and allowing this new moment, this new day, this new year to unfold.
It all sounds pretty—vague.
I guess I just want to say: whatever.
Whatever this year gives me, I choose to relax with it. Whatever shape reality takes for me and for those I love, I choose to learn from it.
And most importantly, whatever I am given, I choose to enjoy my life, as best I can, breathing away the struggling, and relaxing into what is.
That’s the plan.
And now, the practice.