Not my dog. Pink is not his color.

Not my dog. Pink is not his color.

A birthday blew in,

came and went

with a quiet rumble


a big brass band.

I sense



something special,

something brewing.

Quiet whispers.

Only that which matters most,

the deep vs the superficial.

At my age

I gravitate to the deep.

Though bits of superficial 

can be flirty

and fun,

less serious.

I notice some chatter about the big B,

this birthday business.

Sliding into a new decade of life.

A birthday ending in zero.

Just who is chattering?

It feels as if I’m listening in

to a conversation I’m not a part of.

I turn my ear inward,

with curiosity

and concern.

Is there something important for me to know here?

On the one hand,


I have reached this age

in good health,

to my knowledge.

In good spirits,

so it seems.

Put up a flag,

set off some fireworks.

Tell the world.

I am now

this old,

this young.

And I get to say,

“At my age”…

whatever THAT means.

Birthday benefits…

I know more at a deeper level

than before.

And not knowledge 

though that too.

The stuff about being a human, 

what matters most.

More in touch with wisdom than ever before, 

I am.

Softer and easier around the edges,



A gust of conversation blows in.

Disconcerting thoughts,

their power is in creating a feeling of

un ease within me.

No truth in their content.

They’re loud,

making it hard not to listen

They speak over my

quiet, peaceful core

”Is this all?

What else?

Is there more?”


A worry about what is around the corner,

momentarily forgetting I am able to rise to any

and yes, I mean ANY,


Even non occasions.


Then a glimmer of curiosity

about what’s coming next.


I peek around the bend in the road.

The future is fuzzy.

A few items on the calendar, 

mere placeholders for life.

The yet to come

is always yet to come.

Can’t be anything else.

Exciting and mysterious…

That first step

into the unknown,

the next decade.

But really, what is a new decade

or even a new year or day


a line drawn in the sand?

Stepping off in a new direction,

the winds of life pushing me forward.


The only resistance is mine,

when i believe something should be different…

than it is.

That includes wrinkles.  

Stories about getting older,

about a number

This number,

used to be “old”.

In ten years,

will be “young”.

The secret is to see how

the stories of




are constantly changing.

The winds of life will take them on their way.

Obliterating that line of sand,

as wind is wont to do.

Next story please.

gayle nobel