Today I turn seventy-seven. How quietly the years have gathered around me. Ever since I hit seventy, time seems to move in a different rhythm - with steps slower; no longer swift, no longer impatient. Gentler, deeper naturally. Life is no longer about rushing. I no longer measure life by the milestones achieved but the moments that linger softly in the heart. My birthdays have never been celebrated with flowers or fanfare, and turning seventy-seven is no different. The number itself feels astonishing though. I remember a time when seventy seemed impossibly OLD! When I was younger, people in their seventies seemed ancient; these individuals wore sensible shoes (aka ugly), spoke with alarming enthusiasm about blood pressure, diabetes and heart problems. But here I am - standing in that very phase of life, with bits of me making noises they never made before, entering a lift and forgetting which floor to go to, and looking for my glasses while they were already perched on my head. And yet, despite the creaks in the joints, the misplaced keys and spectacles, the complicated relationship with stairs, I am still learning, still curious, still feeling deeply alive. The number is less about the announcement of age than a testament to time.
I have lived long enough to witness entire worlds disappear giving way to new ones with everyday technology that still confounds me. Occasionally - just occasionally - I miss the old stuff, the old ways of doing things as I knew them. But nostalgia has a way of dissipating itself, especially when it gives way to convenience. Age has taught me not to question or reject what I do not understand, but to embrace changes that can make my life easier.
There is something oddly liberating about reaching seventy-seven. One no longer feels obliged to pretend enthusiasm for things that are exhausting, overpriced or trendy. For that matter, to pretend at all. It's like one has suddenly acquired certain privileges - like falling asleep in the middle of a Netflix film, declining an invitation to a fashion show, openly disliking to queue in restaurants and to repeat stories for the umpteenth time. Cancelling plans have never brought so much joy because you would rather sit with a cup of coffee, wear comfortable clothes (aka worn-out t-shirt and pants that have seen better days) and reread that novel for the fifth time because you could never quite recall the plot.
There is no longer the urge to impress or the need for empty conversations just to be heard. There is a certain elegance in growing older, even if I say so myself. Not the elegance of youth with its unabashed audacity, albeit dazzling, but the elegance of having endured, of becoming less concerned with appearances, and more devoted to meaning. Of having learned that peace and patience are more precious than applause. Sometimes I look back on the earlier versions of myself and find more than enough instances to make me cringe with embarrassment. No, no more of that now. But I also look back with great affection on the young ambitious me, the hopeful one, the heartbroken one, the worried one who was endlessly busy trying to find her place in the sun - the one who thought life would eventually unfold according to her dreams because of her hard work. It never did, of course. So much for optimism. At this age, one understands that life follows its own plan, not always in tandem with yours; and sometimes in mysterious ways that leave you stymied. In spite of it all - the disappointments, the despair and the detours - I am here celebrating a life that is nothing short of sacred. For me anyway.,
On this birthday, I find myself thinking less about age and more about moments. The ordinary moments over buttered toast and hot coffee, family conversations around the dining table, about the love and relationships that have endured. About the small mercies that carried us through seasons that we thought we would never survive. I ponder over the kindness extended to me when I least expected it, for the hands that held mine in times of grief and loss, for the friendships that remain without judgement through thick and thin - for everyone who have accepted me for who I am.
I do not stand at this age with certainty. Life is capricious after all. I stand with gratitude - for having come this far. I am grateful for the years, for the people in my life, for the human connections no matter how fleeting they were, and for every chapter and experience of my life - the ridiculous, the exhausting, the sad and the beautiful. I have known the rain beating against windows, sunrise and sunsets in foreign lands, the music and the poetry, and the beauty of the ordinary that have all shaped the landscape of my life to what it is today.
It is remarkable to have the luxury of time now on my hands to do whatever I please, whenever I please. It is finding the energy to do absolutely nothing and feeling good about it. At seventy-seven, I no longer have a wish-list. I have unfulfilled dreams, but that have long given way to finding ways to enjoy life as it is without any modicum of pressure. I do not wish for extraordinary things; just for the ability to greet future days on my feet with calmness, no matter the storm; to find the humour in the not-so-funny and to have lower expectations or none at all, and to continue to welcome the days without worry.
At this stage, I have little appetite for drama, but more appreciation for breezy mornings and lazy afternoons, for friends and family who remain present, and for silence because loudness in just about anything give rise to palpitations of the heart. I hope laughter will still come easily, that the aroma of coffee would not fail to perk me up, and no amount of tiramisu will make me sick. May there still be beauty to notice, words worth writing; may there still be love in all its forms, and a heart still willing to forgive.
Seventy-seven? Not too bad, really.
