Birthday Blues Nelda John
The 28th of November is approaching, which means a new year is about to start for me. Unlike previous birthdays of mine, which were preceded with meticulous planning and bank-breaking shopping, this year’s is
being announced by a slow wind of ambivalence. A gentle whisper that
slithers up my spine and into my ears. “Birthdays are not supposed to be
celebrated,” it says. That birthdays are no cause for personal glorification is an unorthodox perspective, even for me. I have always believed that it is not only right but also reasonable to acknowledge one’s commitment to dealing with a year’s worth of earthly ups and downs. One thing is
obvious to me: the gift of life is as precious as presents can get yet as
heavy as weight can contain. So when people gather to sing the birthday song, they are basically saying, “Well done for your resilience these past twelve months. Good luck in your next dozen adventures”. Because
that is what birthdays are, commencements of 12 new moons, each
one carrying its own tricks and puzzles that we can never fully prepare ourselves for. It’s only fair that we all get fresh starts, or at least that’s
how birthdays pose; as new leaves, blank canvases, clean slates, empty pages. Are they though? Because as I contemplated this carefully, it
occurred to me that perhaps birthdays are more endings than they are beginnings.
When one celebrates their, say, twenty-second birthday, they are not
beginning their twenty-second year on earth, but rather ending it. Think of it this way, when we celebrate a baby’s first birthday, we do so only after they have completed one full year on earth, and by doing so, we are simultaneously acknowledging the ending of their first year. This
baby earns the title of a “one-year-old” only after having experienced the risks and rewards associated with a human’s first year outside a
84