As I do every year on this day, I reflect on my Mother, her life and who she was. I’m thankful for random memories that pop up now and again, like the vacuum performances of my childhood. More so these days I try to imagine who she might have been as woman, and wish I could have had the opportunity to get to know her as a friend. I try not to have too many regrets when I look back at our past but there is one thing that still bothers me. If I could do things over, I would have pulled her away from the house on a Friday night and taken her out to help her get her mind off the things that troubled her: her health, her age, finances and her bitter husband. I would have taken her to a small venue to hear a local band perform. Last night, if I could have, I would have taken her to see Alexi Murdoch perform at the Biltmore.

Yesterday was the release date for Alexi‘s new album ‘Toward the Sun’, recorded in Vancouver in 2009. The songs are few but thoughtful. Last night for one song he put down his guitar; he picked up a shruti box, a hauntingly beautiful instrument that sends out a constant, wavering hum and began to play The Light. One by one, his bandmates bowed their heads. My mind drifted and suddenly I was back in my living room with my sisters, my Mom and the vacuum cleaner. The shruti box is a therapeutic, meditative instrument and perfectly suited when reminiscing of times with a loved one who is no longer here. In some way the very sounds it emits seem to transport the listener, offering a chance to pay respects. The words Alexi sang were poignant, particularly because it was the eve of the anniversary of my Mom’s passing. His song was achingly beautiful and familiar. I don’t know whether Alexi had lost either of his parents, but the song spoke of loss, and the song suggests he could have lost one or both.  My Mom would have appreciated this song, as she too had lost her Mother much too soon. My Dad told me a couple years after my Mom had died, that she never really got over losing her own mother. It had changed her.

Last night as I watched Alexi perform, I was carried away back to a cherished time with my Mom; I thought about how she would have enjoyed the show, swaying and cringing all at once. With a single gasp of air, his abundance of drawn out words sang the most beautiful songs of love and goodbyes and til-we-meet-agains. She would have been o.k. with that, because the rules don’t apply to grief.
And together we would have hummed in unison and harmony with Alexi and the shruti box, annoying everyone around us.

{Isabel. 03/10/05}

Perhaps it was the young man who waited on us, or the barely legal hostess who seated us but the other day at lunch hour with the girls from work, we found ourselves swapping ages. A coworker told us she was celebrating her birthday this weekend. When asked her age, her response of “23″ didn’t cause a blinking eye. A glimmer of a lie crossed her face and one of the otherscalled her out on it. Ashamed, she grimaced “Ok, I’m turning 30…”  As it turns out she’s been telling people she was 23 since she was 18. While the other girls teased her, I wondered, if she actually looks 23, what’s the big deal?

I’m already in my sixth month of my foray into my third decade and so far nothing monumental has occurred except for my metabolism taking a sudden nose dive, but I kissed that one goodbye in my twenties. But one thing I have noticed now since my age turned over, my friends and other women around me are endlessly making not-so-hopeful observations about turning the dreaded age of 30. So what is behind this peculiar behaviour?

My personal fear of the Big Three-Oh came from not following through on some personal goals I had set for myself. When I compare myself to my friends and family, I haven’t quite caught up: I’m still not married, I don’t own a home and I’m not a mother. This doesn’t bother me so much as I’m with a great guy and a wedding is in the future. I don’t necessarily want to be a homeowner just yet, as the idea of working abroad appeals to me, and while I adore kids I’m not convinced motherhood is in my cards. I’ve always been a little different from my friends; I threw on a backpack almost the day after high school graduation and travelled to Asia, Europe and the UK. I didn’t know what I wanted to do so it seemed a bit redundant to be wasting my time and money on classes. World exposure did me some good and eventually I came back to do all my schooling while everyone else was settling down and starting families. But I do have one regret: I promised myself upon returning home from a trip that I would go back to Scotland with a work visa some day while I was single and still in my twenties. I never did do it, and while nothing is stopping me now (even my guy is a willing participant), it was the excitement of being young and single and doing my own thing that appealed to me. I hadn’t put it off, but truthfully I had been so busy with school and work and life’s curveballs that time sort of snuck up on me and suddenly I was no longer single and my twenties were gone.

I have a fantastic photographer friend, the type of girl you love to hate but can’t hate her because you love her so much. I had never once questioned her age (didn’t your Mama teach you it was rude to ask?) but I had decided from the beginning that she was at least a good 6 years older than me. By no means does she look older, but she carries herself with such poise and confidence and self-assuredness, combined with her extensive travel sojourns—she’s the world’s ‘World Traveller’— I chalked it up to experience and age. I nearly fell over myself when I was recently invited to her 30th birthday celebration. I was hit with small pangs of jealousy—here she was, a beautiful, successful, single woman living life to its fullest as I had meant to. Even though she is just as guilty of referring to her new age as dirty thirty, she doesn’t cower under her bedcovers. If anything she’s more excited now for her future than she was last decade. Even though I’m six months ahead of her, I will look to her for cues on how to best enjoy what others tell me is supposed to be the best time of my life.

While the girls at the table comment openly about how cute the waiter is as he stands refilling our water glasses—I’ve heard this overconfident maneater trait is a side effect of our 30′s—I think about what the coming years will bring. I’m in an industry that seems suited for someone just like myself and that tells me I’m where I should be. I’ll just have to get over this feeling that my youth is slipping away and use selective hearing when my boyfriend teases me about being a cradle-robber (4 years difference hurts a little sometimes); and I’ll make another promise to myself to pursue my goals, but not be so hard on myself if it doesn’t happen. Besides, I’ll officially hit Cougar status in 10 years and I’ve heard that’s when life really gets interesting.
Meow.