My birthday is next week.  It’s not a milestone or anything, but I never do particularly well with the idea of another year.  I’m extremely aware of the passage of time – to a point that it’s weird, Steve would tell you.  Since I turned 22, I haven’t seen the point of getting older – no new privileges to look forward to, just big questions like, have I accomplished everything I thought I would by this age?  Ugh.

This year, I’m adjusting my attitude.  For months now, it’s felt like there were reminders everywhere of the fact that none of us are guaranteed another day, let alone another year.  I’ve watched a dear friend grieve the death of her husband – he was in his early forties – in a workplace accident.  Another friend is back in chemo, and a neighbor died in childbirth.  I saw other friends reel from shock at Rachel Held Evans’ passing at only 37; I didn’t follow Rachel’s work, but I know she spoke to many hearts, and… 37.

So this year, I’m approaching my birthday with a grateful heart instead of with dread.  Rather than thinking, ugh, another year older, I’m thinking, yay! I get another year!

Another year to read books, chase two crazy kids around the playground, travel, mess around with my cameras, do yoga, bake with my favorite sous-chef, garden, soak up sunshine, make memories, sip wine, spend time with my favorite people, hike and paddle, watch elementary school concerts, pet the neighbor dogs, ride bikes, splash in the ocean, bug my family members by talking incessantly about killer whales, and give Steve and the kiddos ALL the hugs.  And so much more.  Another year isn’t something to moan about, it’s something to celebrate.

Here’s to another year.