“Of Life, Love & Solitude”

Waking Point

by Helen Noakes

“I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.”

—by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

SAN FRANCISCO, CA—(Weekly Hubris)—4/26/10—I can’t tell you the precise year when I began celebrating my birthdays in solitary silence. I know that it was the year I realized that solitude can be quite splendid and silence remarkably invigorating.

Perhaps silence is not exactly the right word—quiet would be more appropriate, because I fill the anniversary of my birth with music, reading, writing, and a long walk, preferably along Ocean Beach.

It’s become a tradition, this birthday treat of a quiet day followed by an evening with friends—a gift I give myself with each new year of life here on this strange and beautiful planet.

At times a wonderful life, at others, not so much, it has been and continues to be an extraordinary life, rich with experience, with friends, with people who leave light imprints and others who leave indelible marks. Places, too, have left imprints—China, Japan, Greece, England, France, The Sudan, Turkey and, of course, the United States.

I’ve traveled far, learned much, lost a little, and gained a lot. I’ve stored the voices of people in words, art, and deeds, in the vast repository of memory, which I mine in my writing and in my life. People of every hue, and multi-faceted perceptions born of cathedrals, temples and mosques, have shown me lives that inspired and sometimes frightened me. But all of them have added to the wealth of images and ideas that comprise my personal fortune.

Birthdays, for me, are opportunities to look back, take stock and consider the future—but never too far ahead. Tomorrow always seems so far away; today replete with possibilities.

And while there have been todays when dreams seemed futile and hope elusive, I have been blessed more often than not, and have learned to regard the dark passages as lessons of great value.

No paragon of virtue, I’ve suffered through the difficult times, frightened, lost, angry—but, somehow, somewhere, someone would come along to snap me out of my self-pity. This has happened often enough for me to comprehend, at last, that wonderful saying: “Bless your enemy, for he enables you to grow.”

On this birthday, I am compelled to acknowledge my teachers, the friends who’ve guided me past the dangerous shoals of anger, loss, and despair, and the people, who for one reason or other, chose not to be friends.

To the latter, who’ve sought to cause me harm and pain—thank you!

I’m grateful. You’ve taught be well, helped me grow a little wiser and, perhaps, a little stronger. But I won’t lie. I’m glad you’re gone and I don’t want you back. You served your purpose, and you’re history, the past. Your present and mine have nothing in common. May you live well, but far away from me.

I much prefer the lessons that come from love, from joy, from the warmth of lovers, friends, and allies. My thanks to them comes from the heart and that bright place I like to call my soul.

To my friends, I’d like to say that you’ve made me think and, sometimes, you’ve made me weep. You’ve made me laugh. And always, always, you’ve filled me with wonder at the endless wisdom and support you offer with such grace and generosity.

My birthday ritual of taking stock includes an expression of gratitude: To the angels in both worlds; to those who know me well and love me just the same; to strangers who’ve shown me surprising kindness; to the winds of destiny; and to the great Force that lights my way, I am most grateful.

To Peter, John, and Harry, who left this world too soon, but whose words, smiles, strength, and beauty still live, vibrant in my heart, thank you for touching my life. You touch it still, and always will.

To all of you, on this the next great step in my life, I want to say, I love you.