Ars Memorandi Mori

I turned 26 yesterday. It was the first conscious midpoint-passing of my life. At 5 I had no self-awareness, and the 15-to-16 mark was overshadowed by the usual excitement of legal driving. Passing into 26 years has a much more dismal connotation. Especially if you're still single. So far, I've told about half a dozen people that I am 26, and the question that always followed was the intrusive, "You married?" My response is generally a hollow smile with a sarcastic, "Not yet, but I'm lookin'." Let's just say eHarmony hasn't come through for me yet.

Birthday's are always nostalgic for me. My memory wanders back to previous parties, celebrations, and jovial occasions to see how the current year's festivities match up. What's usually so strange is looking at the memory retrospectively (All memory is retrospective, of course, but here its influence is especially profound). Last's year birthday memory is significantly influenced by the events that followed it. Also, the previous year. And the year before that. I find myself realizing that, in the moment, I had a good time. But a year later, I just feel sad at all that's happened then and since. People change. Relationships change. Faces change. Landscapes change. Desires change. Dreams change. Nightmares change. Life just changes.

This year, though nothing spectacular, was quite safe. Spent a few days with the folks, went to the art museum, preached a sermon, spoke with some friends, and called it a day. There was nothing irregular or arbitrarily different about the day. I simply gently glided from one age to the next. I think I prefer it this way. One can never foresee the outcome of change, but we can control hoping for change. Whatever memory that comes from hope always changes.