Birthdays are a wonderful idea. Everyone should have one. (The Pleezer in me wants that to be true--no more aborted babies!)
I remember the day I was born. Well, not actually, but the stories are told so often that I feel like I was there. You would think that it was a royal birth. (Hmmmm?) I have felt like June 5 deserved a national holiday. Because I was such a beautiful baby? Because my grandmother pronounced me her favorite immediately? Because there was always a cake for me on that day?
Probably not. It is because I was born thinking the world revolved around me. Thank goodness my parents did not think the same thing. My delusion was private. Delusions are best that way.
For many years I hated my birthday celebrations. I think I was uncomfortable that my delusion might be true. Or maybe uncomfortable that it wasn't. I wanted the spotlight, but could not stand the brightness of it. Many years I muddled through the day. Still I was given the royal treatment, but I was more a royal pain in the ass-embly.
But if I cannot accept the celebration of a birthday, and all the attention that comes with it, then I cannot fully live. To live is to receive with gratitude--relationships, wealth, pain, sorrow, reality, even life itself. Holding back from a complete embrace of life means that my delusion is alive and well: It is all about ME.
Which brings me back to cake. I had two pieces yesterday. By all accounts--my tummy, my appetite for good things (tanked), my scales--it was too much.
It isn't about the cake. It is about the Baker. And he throws a magnificent party.
No comments:
Post a Comment