So long, Mr. BIG.

Even now, at 31—31 today!—even after the year that’s passed and the thrill of the new year ahead, it is the little things, “inconsequential” one might say, that amaze me, surprise me, humble and soften and bolster me now.

I think it is the little things this year, at 31.

It is the short collection of words, carefully chosen, sincerely said.  The one statement of honest praise.  The one, long, tight, meaningful embrace that, somehow, at that precise second, seems to mean absolutely everything.

It is the homemade cake, the hand-written card, the bouquet of blue hydrangeas, the inscribed book.  The silly text.  The quick phone call.  The mailed greeting.  The voice of my father.  A song, shyly and sleepily sung, by two little boys awoken in the early hours to wish their auntie a “happy birthday.” 

It is his kind handshake—a cultural custom, you see.

It is the memory, softly revisited.  

It is knowing he will never—never.  Once only a minute kernal of possibility, it is, now, a bloomed, thorned rose of reality.  It rests, withering, gathering dust, on the windowsill of my heart. 

It is the newly sprouted curl atop my niece’s head.  It is her innocence, in the way she clings to my hand, trying to steady her tiny feet, as she goes to lead me out into the world, while I think, “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

It is my yoga teacher saying to me the other night after class, “You looked good and strong in there.”  My reply, before I could even think or stop myself or say ‘thank you,’ was: “I didn’t feel good or strong.”  And my teacher said, “Yeah, well, sometimes we don’t see ourselves as others do.  But, the strength?  The goodness?  It’s there.  I can see it; I believe it.  You just have to see it.  And believe in it.”  I wanted to round the front desk and sit in his lap and kiss him square on his sweaty cheek.

Sometimes, though—and definitely in this instance—maybe it is resisting the urge to hug and kiss.

Or, perhaps, it is hugging and kissing and squeezing on tight in the very instant the urge strikes.  What, tell me, is simpler than that?

It is saying “thank you” without agenda, with full heart.

It is taking full stock of possibilties and potential.  It is running wild with them, and not looking back.

It is taking a deep, deep breath. 

Simple, small things, really.

Last year, at this time, for my 30th birthday, I wanted all BIG things.  I wanted a loud, riotous, celebratory, colorful, friend-filled, party-filled, champagned birthday bash.  I wanted a BIG production.  I wanted a Mr. BIG moment. It was all about the BIG, BIG, BIG occassion: Turning Thirty.  GASP!  So big, so important, such a monstrous and dramatic event that it received many, many, many, many BIG blog posts, before and after.

And you know what?  I got BIG.  I got BIG many times over.  And it was perfect, wonderful, amazing, surprising, unforgettable.  Everything I’d craved, everything I’d secretly wished and hoped for.  (Thank you, family and best friends.)

But, a year can change many things besides the age on your license.  Your address, your significant other, your job, your wardrobe, your hair cut, your preferences on what to order at dinner.  A year can change your outlook, your attitude, your heart, your ability to forgive, move on, let go, and regrip someplace new, palm to palm with another.

You.  In a year.  Just a year.  You change.  In big or small ways.

One of my best and dearest friends sent me a birthday card that arrived a few days early.  I wanted to save it for the 6th, but I’m such a sucker for anything that arrives via the post that I just couldn’t wait.  I tore it open.  And, inside, my friend had written such a sweet, thoughtful note.  She commended me, applauded me, wished me a happy 31st, and then remarked that she felt I sounded different these days: a little older, wiser, weathered, a bit hardened even.  But, this was not a bad thing.  This was a mark of experience, of wisdom, of taking a hit or two and bearing the brunt but pushing on, still, hopeful, with the stories of survival in tow.  She told me she was proud.  She signed her name with love, x’s and o’s.

It is a small note—a mere birthday card.  But, I have read it every day since, because I know now, at 31, that it is the little reminders, the quiet cries and cheers, the subtle cares and efforts, that can send the greatest ripples of clarity and confidence through the daily churn of this life of mine.

And that’s why, at 31, I think my mother’s short and direct daily adage of “be strong, brave, and true” has never felt so poignant, so perfect.

It is a simple turn of phrase, I know.

But this year, this birthday, it is the small, simple things that I’m craving. 

I want some tight hugs and genuine laughter.  I want sweetness, tenderness, truth.  I want raw, pure love.  I want to pull close and thank those handful of kindred spirits who supported and cheered me on through the cliffs and valleys of 2011.  I want a quiet moment, with you.  I want the heartfelt, honest conversation.

Because, this year, I know my voice; it does not waver.  And I know my life; it is small, yes, but good and fulfilling and exciting and strange and whole-heartedly me.  It does not need to be BIG.  

My mother—well, she would be pleased to know that, at 31—31 today!—I am strong, brave, and true.  And, I dare say, bolder than ever before.

Just you wait and see.

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