Sunday, April 19, 2015

Willows and Wishes

A birthday is a strange day. Most magical days come when unexpected, and the morning of one feels no different. But from the very first disgruntled sigh and ray of morning sun, a birthday is marked as special. Whatever ensues, a birthday will go down in memory tainted in a different color, held to a higher expectation and remembered with heightened awareness. This year my birthday fell on a school day, and so I arose dutifully. The day began in its quiet, understated way. Like the murmurs of a stage before a play, as the groggy audience of one I heard only the last minute hushed whispers of a crew whisking around the edges.

Throughout the day I was given not just gifts, but reminders of the greater gift I bask in every day. My roommate baked me cookies and posted “Happy B-Day” in sticky notes above my bed. My friends shuffled suspiciously into my room only to reveal a pack of doughnuts and homemade cards. One card was a collage of our best pictures, and I was moved to think that so many lovely moments represent my time here. The other was comprised of makeshift lyrics to songs, the most notable being Sound of Music’s “I feel nineteen, going on twenty…” and Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ changed to ‘Young and sweet only nineteen…”

As usual I went to work in my student assistant position in the MFA in Writing department. I am constantly reminded that I have the best bosses in the world, as I am not only surrounded by the loud and constant eccentricity of writers but their underlying deeply rooted kindness. It is a high concentration rare to find in one person, let alone diffused throughout a whole department. When my bosses inquired as to whether I would have cake on my birthday and discovered I had had none, they were shocked. They declared that I must have cake, and I was promptly ushered into a taxi and to a cake shop to choose whichever I wanted. I had the strange experience of ordering my own name to be iced onto a cake, and attending an impromptu office party in my honor. As if that was not enough, my boss bought me an autographed book by one of my favorite authors. It is surreal to behold such occasions, such catalyst people, such gifts. It is strange to wonder if I deserve it, and to shake my head at each new surprising moment.


Later that night I skyped my family and opened my presents in front of them. They presented me a half-eaten birthday cake and candles I symbolically blew out from across the country. The presiding priest at a school mass sent out a prayer to me, and afterwards I got more hugs than I knew what to do with. When each hug lingered, it felt as though everyone reached out a loving hand at the same time. Shrouded in hugs and hopes and humility, I felt thrust upon the stage of my next year. With such an opening act, I couldn’t help but to wonder at the plot of the play.
I had hinted to my friends that I wanted to go on a celebratory picnic. So they spent all week planning a picnic that I conveniently forgot that I mentioned. So I suffered the usual irritation over hushed conversations and exclusion born from a surprise party, ironic because I myself planted the idea. But with due time all was revealed, and my obliviousness reveled in when we laughed about it together. In the lovely Dolores Park of San Francisco, my friends arranged an artful assortment of goodies around a grand centerpiece of a chocolate toffee cake. One had traveled to the Ferry building to buy farmers market bread and cheese. Another had made homemade punch, sandwiches, and a fruit salad. I was greeted by a small pot of flowers and a playlist of my favorite songs.
We sat underneath a beautiful willow tree, swinging lethargically around us as though it too was listening to the music. The sun peaked its way around the trunk, too shy to join our party but too curious to avert his glance. The park was packed—one would think a fair happened somewhere in its midst, but just the gathering of typical San Franciscans ever appreciative of a nice day. We watched tight-ropers and a gang of hoola-hoop enthusiasts set up in the park. A band strummed away U2 covers and as the day went on more and more passerby circled around to watch. When a man with a pet iguana sat down near us, we eagerly asked if we could pet the curious-looking creature. The man not only let us pet the iguana, but placed him on each of our shoulders.

People who walked by remarked about our set up and wished me happy birthday. When it came time to sing happy birthday, a couple sitting near us helped us light the candles and we afterwards gave them each a piece of cake. An older man sitting higher up the hill offered us birthday pot, to which we only laughed nervously.

When the time came to go, I walked behind my friends, laughing as we all three limped with our loads. It was a beautiful image, seeing them walking with their summer dresses billowing behind them and their picnic bags hoisted determinedly to their sides. They did not even know that I watched them in such an appreciative manner, full of awe at the two people who single-handedly supply me more than my fair share of happiness. On the bus back we all leaned on each other, stuffed to the brim, exhausted in the most liberating of ways.

A special day indeed. A stage with rose petals strewn across its shining surface. My birthday wish was for a glorious second act, and a sequel to this day next year. If every year has one day of cakes and kindness, willows and wishes, it will be a good life.