50

Focus: a localized area of disease or the chief site of a generalized disease or infection

Four days before my 50^th birthday, a mob of Trump supporters tried to stop Congress from certifying a fair and democratic election. They stormed the Capitol building, sporting shirts that read “six million were not enough” and waving Confederate flags, filling the Rotunda where, not so long ago, Ruth Bader Ginsburg became the first woman and first Jew to lie in state.

“It’s not like there’s just one of them,” my sister said later on the phone. “They’ve expanded like…like a cancer.”

Four days before my 13^th birthday, my mother, age 49, came home for the last time from the hospital at the end of an on-and-off, four year battle with cancer. The photos of my birthday are poignant; I’m wearing a jean dress with a red shirt and blue polka dotted bow tie. My mother is sitting in a wheelchair wearing a red robe. “We match,” I remember her saying, smiling up at me from her chair just before my aunt Katina took the last birthday photos I have with my mom.

Focus: a center of activity, attraction, or attention

I have been planning my 50^th birthday since I was 13. “If I outlive my mother,” I would tell anyone who would listen, “I’m going to have a huge dance party.” At some point my eldest daughter began to weave a story of how she would convince Bruce Springsteen to provide a private concert on January 10, 2021. My spouse, who is hardly a Bruce fan, even joined his fan club just in case she could score me good tickets to a live concert.

All through the Advent and Christmas season, I sat every morning and every night in front of the Christmas tree, breathing in its deep, sweet, stinging scent, staring at the glimmer and glow, each tiny, unique memory. There were the ornaments I’d made with my mother, and for her. There were the annual ornaments my aunt Connie, who raised me after my mother’s death, had purchased for me—one for every year of my life. These combined with my spouse’s and children’s special ornaments made for a heavy-laden tree, one carefully chosen for its size and sturdiness.

So much had happened during Advent and Christmas, including some of our darkest days as a family, and some of our most poignant.

“I don’t want the tree to come down until after my birthday,” I wept to my spouse on the night of the attempted coup, which was also Epiphany. The tears had come unexpectedly, sudden and fierce, and I couldn’t explain them. “Please, can we keep it up a few more days?”

Focus: a state or condition permitting clear perception or understanding

But on the 8^th, two days before my birthday, two days after Epiphany, one day after the feast of St. John, I woke to the most beautiful sight: every surface outside (not just the trees) was covered with hoar frost. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Sure it wouldn’t last long, I hurried my son through his morning routine so we could take a longer walk with the dogs before his school van came.

“I feel like I could understand anything I wanted to know today,” my son said out of the blue, hitting the trunk of a tree we were passing with a huge stick and watching small, white circles of ice drift onto his head. Somehow, I knew what he meant.

I worked hard all day, willing myself not to look at the news—I needed to breathe, to focus on something over which I had at least a little control. Every so often I glanced out the window. The hoar frost was still there.

It lingered into the night, clinging stubbornly and thickly to the trees, to the banister leading up to our front door, the windowsills of every house along our street. My son and I walked the dogs again, breathless, hardly believing the world could look like this in the midst of so much upheaval.

Focus: to adjust the focus of (the eye, a lens, etc.)

That night, I found myself suddenly, inexplicably, full of an urge to clear the house of Christmas, despite my tearful proclamation earlier in the week that I needed to keep the decorations up for my birthday. I stayed up late carefully wrapping each decoration, each ornament, each small memory and dragging boxes to the garage. At last, close to midnight, I undressed the tree and dragged it out the front door and into the backyard. I swept up the needles, breathed in the lingering, familiar, comforting scent.

Then I turned off all the lights as I had done for so many nights and I sat down on the chair where, throughout Advent, I’d sat each morning and each evening to gaze at the tree. Everything was dark and bare, and my heart swelled with a sense of comfort. I didn’t even want to put up the winter, Valentine’s, or everyday decorations. This emptiness was what I needed—the elegant, clean lines of the brick fireplace, the uneven bookshelf, the doorway between the threshold and the living room where I was sitting. The unfilled spaces were an invitation to rest, to wait.

Focus: a point at which rays (as of light, heat, or sound) converge or from which they diverge appear to diverge, specifically: the point where the geometrical lines or their prolongations conforming to the rays diverging from or converging toward another point intersect and give rise to an image after reflection by a mirror or refraction by a lens or optical system

Sometime between Christmas and Epiphany, I realized that my aunt Connie who raised me really shouldn’t come to my 50^th birthday as planned. I realized that my spouse was working my birthday weekend, as was my eldest daughter. Neither had the option to call off in these crazy COVID times. The others living here aren’t equipped to throw a party or even, really, to acknowledge my birthday without prompting. And, in this COVID time, there was no way to gather friends together. I let this realization sink in: there would be no proper party the weekend of my birthday.

This is how it’s supposed to be, I thought to myself. Maybe it’s a lesson: after all these years of worrying I would not make it, maybe it’s enough for me to turn 50. Enough that I’ll wake that morning, healthy and alive.

I felt startled suddenly. For the first time, I had dared to think that I would wake on January 10^, 2021, healthy and alive.

Sometime between Christmas and Epiphany, while running on the treadmill, I had a crazy idea. What if I invited anyone who wanted to come to meet with me on Zoom for a virtual happy hour? And what if I asked them to bring a poem, a song, a memory—something to help usher me into the second half of my life? Perhaps doing so would also help me to choose my word of the year, which despite much contemplation, still remained a mystery.

But I’m solo parenting all weekend, I thought, and breathed in deeply before the pang of grief could rise. It will be enough to wake up alive and well.

But then, a few hours later, the stars aligned, and all of the kids suddenly had specific plans to be with other people for five whole hours on the day before my birthday, a Saturday.

I spent two days wrestling with myself about whether or not to put an invitation out there. I wrote about a dozen drafts, tried to make a list of people to invite. Finally, on a lunch break just days before my birthday, I hurriedly wrote a raw, honest request, pressed “post” on my Facebook page, and sent a couple group e-mails to random people.

I’d done it.

And immediately, I regretted it. What if no one comes, I wondered. I’d hardly been attentive to other people’s birthdays—or friendships, for that matter—over the last decade. Petalouda House and my increasingly demanding job were my excuses—and they had, indeed, made it difficult to focus on anyone beyond the people in my house and my work. I hardly deserved the attention I was now requesting.

Or worse, I thought, what if people come because they feel obligated and not because they want to?

But I had asked for RSVPs, not wanting to publicly post a Zoom link, and they began to arrive. People from all eras of my life responded enthusiastically to my request, noted they were trying to decide what to bring to share or letting me know they were too shy to read in front of a group but would send me something.

When Saturday arrived—the hoar frost still thick and lovely—all the kids’ plans suddenly changed, and I had only three hours rather than five to myself, and so much to do. I almost canceled, but I decided instead to push the time back by a half hour and rush through a million errands as quickly as possible.  

I ran into the house, carelessly tossed the groceries into the fridge, freezer, or cupboards, then logged on. I was breathless, not having bothered to even look in the mirror to see how I looked, not having bothered to grab lunch or a drink.

And then their small, square faces began to emerge out of the darkness, some for the first time in more than 20 years: high school friends, college friends, friends from those magical years between college and graduate school. Friends from graduate school, from spiritual direction training, former students and colleagues, friends from down the street. My aunt who raised me was there to tell everyone I had been the most beautiful baby she had ever seen.

“This is like a great convergence of your whole life,” one of my spiritual direction sisters said. “We’re here to hold up a mirror and remind you who you are.”

I wept through the whole thing. The rest of the evening was a blur of supper-dog walk (the hoar frost still stunning)-cleaning-bedtime, the same as always but, as always on the day she works, more complicated due to the one-adult situation.

After getting everyone to bed—much more easily than I’d expected—I found myself restless. I decided to bake another loaf of Vasilopita, a crazy idea that made literally no sense at all. But, my parents-in-law had not received one, and in a couple days I’d be driving right by their house to take my son to an appointment in the town about an hour away where they lived. They’d done so much for us. I loved making bread. And so, I began.

As I always do, I tried to keep my mind focused on the process, to sing the Advent and Christmas songs that I was slowly releasing, to pray for the nourishment of the people who would eat the bread.

I split the loaf in half so that my family would also get another loaf and prepared it to rise overnight. Then I sat down and glanced at my phone. I couldn’t believe it—there were more than 30 e-mails I hadn’t yet seen.

Some friends and family who had come realized after logging off that they had more to say. Some who hadn’t made it sent me poems or videos. I poured a glass of wine and settled into responding to the messages, savoring each one. After awhile, I glanced at my watch. 11:30.

“In a half hour, I’ll be fifty,” I said out loud.

 I could barely help it: I found I was holding my breath, half-expecting to drop dead during the remaining 30 minutes. And then, at midnight, my phone dinged, and I saw that my spouse, who is never on Facebook, had posted something.

There it was on my page: a photo of my mother and I playing checkers. I was wearing a red velvet dress, probably about six or seven. I remembered the day: Christmas, Thea Katina’s house, how she’d noticed I was overwhelmed by the usual raucous, crowded family Christmas and led me to a quiet room and taught me to play. We played for what seemed like hours, moving those black and red spheres neatly across the board.

I didn’t know anyone had taken a photo, but I closed my eyes and imagined my Thea Katina, who was always carrying a camera, sneaking in and snapping it from a distance when we weren’t looking. I smiled.

“Happy birthday. Here's to 50 more,” my spouse had written, and that was all, but I knew she’d taken a quick break at work to post this, had somehow snagged the photo from a family member without my knowing, was aware that I was probably waiting to midnight just to be sure I’d still be alive.

In the photo, my mom and I are totally focused on the game, and I’m pointing at an empty square, probably asking her a question.

I had a lot of questions, always, too many.

I wish I had asked even more. But, I realized, she wouldn’t have been able to tell me what life post-50 was like anyway. I would have to figure out this phase on my own. And yet, I had so much love surrounding me, so many people who could be called upon to remind me who I am.

Focus: The place of origin of an earthquake or moonquake

At some point while I was gathered with friends, my 97 year old Thea Koula, my biggest hero, fell and hit her head. In March, my eldest daughter and I had taken a risky trip to Ohio to see her and her daughter, who is struggling with an undiagnosed debilitating disease. At the end of my last visit to her home, my daughter and I had gone outside briefly to take some photos in her yard. When we returned, we found her on the floor.

That fall turned out not to have been too serious, but this one—well, I worried it would be the end. I wondered what it would mean if my mother’s eldest and only living sister died on the  birthday I never believed would come.

She didn’t. She rallied, as she always does.

Still, on the morning of my birthday, as I texted back and forth with family members, trying to understand what had happened, I realized that she, the only person left who knew my mother for her entire life, soon will no longer be here. I felt…shattered. I literally had to lie down and hold myself.

But you, I heard a voice whisper, you are going to live a long life as she has. You have the whole second half of your life ahead of you.

I reached out my hand and felt it brush the hand of whichever ancestor was paying me a visit. Because she spoke in a whisper, it could have been anyone—my mom, my Thea Katina, my Yiayia, or somebody else.

I woke with a start, realizing I’d fallen back to sleep and was half-dreaming. I sat up and pulled back the curtains, excited to see hoar frost again—but the trees, instead, were wet and shimmering in the bright sun.

I’m 50, I thought, and the sun has come for the first time in days, and everything is clear of any impediment and completely, wholly what it is.

That thought, too, felt shattering, but in a different way—the kind of shattering that shakes pieces back into place, or moves them so the light can gather and flow among them, through all the empty, jagged spaces.

 

Focus, origin, Latin: domestic hearth

I had big plans for my birthday: to walk with my son among frost-laden trees all day long, to make sloppy joe’s for the kids and Indian food for myself, to finish the Vasilopita and have a slice with supper, and to eat cheesecake my neighbor had made for me with a glass of wine for dessert.

Instead, everybody except the baby and me woke up sick. The first child to remember it was my birthday said, “Sorry I’m not very excited about your birthday. I feel like I was hit by a truck.” I spent the day cleaning up puke, passing out tissues, taking a run to the store for ginger ale and Nyquil.

In the midst of it, the almost-two-year-old ran from his play kitchen to the real kitchen, over and over, shouting “yiayia” and “dog” and “ball,” laughing hysterically, completely unaware of how everyone else was feeling, full of pure joy.

And then, just as I was getting supper ready (frozen Indian food from Trader Joe’s instead of homemade), my spouse woke and came downstairs and told me two things: that her parents were coming with a gift for me, and that she wasn’t sure if she would be able to go to work after all tonight, given everybody’s symptoms, even though she herself felt fine. She had to call her supervisor.

Before I had time to process this, she went back upstairs to shower for her (possible) night shift and check with her supervisor. Her parents arrived with a freezer I’ve wanted for years, one that will hold the bounty of my garden this coming summer. They heaved it into our basement just as my spouse came downstairs to announce, “We all have to go to the hospital for rapid tests, or else I can’t go to work, and they really need me tonight.”

So, on the evening of my 50^th birthday, instead of dancing to Bruce Springsteen tunes, I was serenaded by my spouse’s coworkers, who half-heartedly sang “Happy Birthday” while sticking a swab up my nose.

We were all negative, thank goodness, but it was hours before everybody settled into bed. They couldn’t sleep because they had to throw up, or blow their noses, or cry because their heads hurt so badly, or (in the case of the toddler) scream because he’d had enough of everybody else’s anxious energy.

Finally, mercifully, just after 10 p.m., everybody finally fell asleep. I looked at my phone. My mother-in-law had sent me a text: I hope you have a chance to sit and relax and eat your cheesecake tonight and think about the amazing life you’ve had so far.

The cheesecake! I’d almost forgotten! I carefully lifted the cheesecakes out of their boxes—one mint chocolate chip and one lavender honey—and arranged them with a bottle of wine. I snapped a photo. And then, two children cried out for help at the same time, and I was up until midnight trying to get everyone settled and back to bed.

Finally, at midnight, I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle friends had left on my doorstep and cut myself a slice of each cheesecake. I continued writing thank you notes to each person who had sent messages or poems or songs or who had shown up to be with me the day before until I was too sleepy to go on.

Just as I was about to fall asleep, I realized my birthday was over and I hadn't chosen a new word of the year. In the days of Christmas, I'd found several, looked up their definitions and etymologies, spent some time writing and meditating on each, but nothing seemed quite right. 

You’re trying to hard, my own voice, or an ancestor’s, whispered to me. Just empty your mind, and focus. 

I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. Focus.

Instead of staying silent and still, I sat up suddenly, flipped open my laptop. Greedily, excitedly, I looked up the definitions and etymology of the word “Focus.”

Attention. Center. Convergence. Divergence.

Origin: domestic hearth.

I had found it, finally, my word of the year, and I flipped my computer closed and fell asleep almost instantly, the word focus floating lightly on my breath.