Today I am 37

a few lessons

Today I am 37. What have I learned so far?

I’m tempted to say ‘not much’. I’m tempted to wonder why they don’t tell you that you still won’t know what you’re doing well into your 30s.

Well, that’s partly true — it would be really helpful if they sat us down at 14 and 15 and said, ‘Kid, you’re never gonna know exactly what you're doing. You’re always going to be a little bit bewildered by life and the turns, twists and roundabouts will make it all the more interesting.’

But I’m working on not belittling myself, like, ever. Do you know how hard that is? Have you tried it? It feels near impossible to me. But I’m working on not belittling myself. So perhaps it’s less ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing’ and more ‘I’m an ever-evolving human who still has a lot to learn.’

Here are some things I’ve learned:

I’ve learned that I feel younger now than I did at 22, 25 and 27, and thank god for that. Bless her body, bless her life — but I’m not going back.

I’ve learned that I cannot be all things to all people. I can only show up in ways that feel right for me, I do not control the outside world, and I am not responsible for the happiness of others. I am responsible for my own wholeness. My own well-being. I can only add to the wholeness of others.  

I’ve learned I cannot save anyone, and god knows I’ve tried. I can only love them. I can only walk alongside them.

I’ve learned that with time, almost all things heal. The most cavernous wounds may still sting and smart with the passage of time, but my attention on it dulls.

I’ve learned that we are all traumatized in one way or another and therefore we must be kind, as kind as we possibly can. I’ve learned that I will do this imperfectly.

Last week I was driving down the Bowery. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I something wrong. A man pulled up alongside me in a RAV4, put his forefinger to his temple and tapped three times, shaking his head. I saw red. The implication of his gesture was that I wasn’t thinking, that I was a silly little girl and that I should use my brain (if I even have one). I honked at him. He turned back around and did the tapping and the shaking again. My window was rolled down on an unseasonably warm October day. I yelled an expletive, but he ignored me, and I then yelled, for all the Bowery to hear, ‘I hate men.’ Not my finest moment (and not at all true). But my anger was expressed, my road rage belying a deeper rage and sadness about the state of the world.

I’ve learned, time and time and time again, that I will not always be kind. I will live my life imperfectly. And all I can do is continuously show up to redirect, to correct. I have learned to express my anger, though I don’t always remember (and I definitely don’t always do it with grace).

I’ve learned that friendship is a practice. It requires tending to, it requires patience, it requires understanding and compromise. I’ve learned that friends do become family. I’ve learned that people enter your life for a season and then leave. They come back again, too. Some don’t. That’s okay. 

I’ve learned that your parents get older, which seemed impossible in childhood. I’ve learned that they did the best they could with the information they had at the time. I’ve learned that you can drift away and come back to each other. I’ve learned that intergenerational healing is a process.

I’ve learned that I have to keep my inner child close, that I have to take care of her. That I’ve got to spend time in her company, and remember that she needs me.

I’ve learned that you will lose the people you love. People will die. It is inevitable, and the enormity of grief is in line with how much you loved them. They become ancestors, their memory is a blessing.

I’ve learned, too, about death. I have come to its brink. I have stood on the edge of it and said no, not now. I have learned that it is not the end, I have learned that it is not as scary as we think it is. I have learned that actually, it is not tragic at all, except for those that we leave behind. It pays to become intimate with one’s death, to court it, to consider it. To roll it around in my mouth and let it guide my life. It is acceptable to talk about my death. It is acceptable to talk about the parts of us that die as we grow older.

I’ve learned that breakfast, lunch and dinner is one of the great joys of life. That eating is not to be associated with guilt. That deprivation is not a doorway to a moral high ground. That my body is not to be abused through food — with too much or too little of it. I’ve learned that this learning is for a lifetime, that I won’t always remember that food is for sustenance and joy and that I am undoing a lifetime of conditioning.

I’ve learned that my feelings are not too much, that my beauty is vast, that I am actually quite intelligent, that I can build my life now and that I am loved. I’ve learned that sometimes I will forget all those truths and believe the opposite, and I do not need to chastise myself for it.

I have learned that I am an artist, a mystic and a healer. I do not need to hide it, apologise for it or pretend I’m anything else that I’m not. I am not here to fit in, I’m here to be alive. 

I’ve learned that there is grave, ongoing injustice in the world, and it will break my heart (and maybe yours too) over and over and over again. The heartbreak, for me, is a doorway — it helps me to show up, imperfectly. It guides me towards what is true, what is mine to carry, what is mine to put down. My grief is and always will be a teacher. 

I’ve learned that even in the deepest wells of pain I can find the laughter, I can find the joy, I can find the joke. That is a great power to have. May I never let go of that. 

I’ve learned that even in the deepest wells of pain I can access the tears, I can sit in the sadness and I can process grief through my body. That is a great power to have. May I never let go of that. 

I have learned that I process things sometimes very slowly and that at 37, I am still blooming. I have been processing life very slowly. My story is my story. I will not belittle myself for it. I will not ascribe to a timeline that was never mine to carry. 

I have learned that being an aunty and a godmother is such an honour. And either I’ll physically mother or I won’t, but I will have the opportunity to mother with my love, my presence and my commitment. 

I’ve learned that Marvin Gaye stirs something in me that words can’t touch. That mos def will always be my hero. That Little Dragon will always remind me of my 20s. The Pretenders and Bonnie Raitt and The Rolling Stones are my childhood. That Ace of Base and Alanis and TLC still hold up. That house music and garage still gets me going. That my exquisite taste in music is an achievement in itself, and I must always have it playing. There must always be a soundtrack to my life. 

I’ve learned that even when I feel so low, so hopeless, so beyond recognition there are so many people who love me. Who continue to show up for me. Who have not given up on me. Who want to see me thrive. 

I’ve learned that life is a practice. It’s not to be done perfectly. It’s also not a dress rehearsal. The days turn into years, turn into decades, and the way I live today is all I have. May I show up to it always. 

I’ve learned that envy is a teacher. It can be a roadmap to what it is I want. Shame is not useful in this arena. Just feel it and keep it moving. 

I’ve learned that it takes nothing away from me to lift you up. There’s no reason not to do it. There’s only room to celebrate the people in my life, the world is hard enough as it is.

I’ve learned that sleep, water, sun, food and exercise provide me with a sense of well-being that makes me rich. 

I’ve learned to see the people, make the trip, learn the language, eat the food, bake the cake, give the gifts, buy the lipstick and tell the people you love them. I’ve learned to say the thing even if it’s scary, even if you’ll be rejected because there’s nothing to lose. Only more time. 

I still have so much to learn. The more I know, the more I know nothing. These are times of deep, deep grief. I will not look away. I will not stop loving you and loving me. I will not stop sending these tiny missives. I will not stop committing to beauty despite the ugliness of our times. It is not a trite pursuit. 

With love,

Nora x