the golden isles

This year I celebrated my birthday on an island off the coast of Georgia. I drove from South Carolina, an easy breezy four hour trip with a hop to walmart for necessary celebrating gear. Prance and I were going to celebrate our birthdays (which magically happen to be on the same day) in a place we would feel the sun.

I can’t remember how old I was, but at some point in my youth I decided that I’d rather celebrate my birthday by myself. A day all for me to do whatever I wanted and when I wanted to. There’s something really special about being able to celebrate alone, without fear or judgment of yourself. It makes me think of kiddos that get so hyped up for their birthday parties, inviting their entire class so that their happy birthday song becomes the loudest it’s ever been. When I celebrate my birthday alone my mind and thoughts become just mine, something that could be deemed as selfish if taken to an extreme, but ultimately is incredibly healthy for the soul. One of my favorite books is a story about a poet writing letters to a younger, less experienced poet. He says at some point that to become friends with ones own solitude is one of the best gifts you can give yourself.

I found a shell with purple swirls and jagged edges on a beach that held twisted trees, leaning and growing into one another, holding each other up, encouraging strength and show. “This is the closest thing to heaven—a thin space”. I used that heavenly shell to write a love letter to myself. Spacing words about five feet apart in the sand, swirling and twirling letters with my new shell. I wrote my favorite things about myself, all my favorite things. Not the things that other people have told me are wonderful, but what I like. Then I walked up and down the beach and read my words to myself, skipping, spinning, smiling, giggling. I splashed in the wet sand and ran into the waves with Prance. We lived alive.