Genethliacon vol. 25

Genethliacon (n)- a birthday ode

Today was remarkably Wednesday, birthday and all. There was none of the weight of a Monday nor the freedom and possibility inherent in weekend days. It was business as usual, which was alright by me.

 I think this birthday doesn’t feel so weighty to me because this whole year is monumental. It will stand out in another ¾ of a century to me. I can rent a car without paying through the nose. What does feel weighty is the entrance into this ten-year period where I would like to establish the foundations for the rest of my life. Ten years from right now, I hope to be comfortably settled in a town, with a partner and ready, if not already planning for children. I hope to have a job that satisfies me, to have beehive(s), and to still be knitting. I feel like I’m ready for that life. 

If twenty-five years marks the climb into adulthood, maybe the next twenty-five years arching towards fifty, mid-life, imply a downward course towards settling. Settling in, settling down, not settling for less, unsatisfied. Being here has taught me that it can be so pleasant to be comfortable. Comfortable to be clean, surrounded by love, to have options, to have work surfaces, and to have help at hand. 

That doesn’t imply not learning or not working hard. I think after my time here in Zambia, I won’t feel the need to prove that I’m tough enough, resilient enough, to keep going. Toughness and resiliency would be welcomed, though. 

Today I had two small breakdowns which felt uncontrollable and were undoubtedly culturally inappropriate. On the phone with my mom, we started talking about being far away and her tear-choked voice talking about her own father drove me to tears. Three men stopped to greet me as I was tearfully on the phone. Why do Zambians start talking to you when you are clearly on the phone? They asked me who had died (because a death is the only time when adults cry in this culture). I said no one had and said goodbye to them, somewhat briskly.

 Then, talking to Stephen later I became so overwhelmed. We were talking about heavier things than I wish we had been, plus my phone had momentarily become unresponsive. I was wondering if I could still manage to get to Lusaka for meetings next week without a working phone. Then a maama approached me and started trying to tell me something I did not understand in the least (while I was also clearly on the phone). I told her I didn’t understand with tears brimming, then turned away and cried, again. I’m not proud and it was an uncomfortable moment. 

When I came back from the boma, recovering from my thirst and the heat, I promptly fell asleep for several hours. The only explanation I can give is emotional exhaustion. Maybe physical, too. I’m pretty sore from my gardening yesterday, in unexpected places like my hands and my abdominals.

In summation, twenty-five doesn’t feel like a spectacular change. Compared to times before, I’m maturing still. I’m learning more about life and my place in it. The number marks a progression, not defines it. Is that even proper English? More to learn, obviously. 

6 September 2017