Fifteen years ago, I used to celebrate my Fall birthday for a whole month. From October 1st to All Hallows Eve, it was all about me. I ate frosted birthday cakes. I threw costume parties. I went to carnivals, flea markets, arts and crafts fairs, and amusement parks. By mid-month, everyone I knew was pissed off at me. “Too bad, so sad” I said. “Go celebrate your own birthday for a month and stop being jealous of me!” Well, this year, I didn’t do sh*t and I admit that I am feeling pouty and sad. Poor me.
Here’s my post. Happy 48th, Rivka Ruth. ):
The 24th of October 2014 was my American birthday. I actually considered it my birthday last Tuesday when I was sneaking into Canada after dark, the 20th of Tishrei 5775 in the Hebrew calendar. I thought it would be a boon to have two birthdays, but I find it to be a hassle and it confuses my family who do not care to understand me. Roughly every 19 years, my Hebrew birthday and my western birthday fall on the same date – which is why I intended/hoped to die on the 24th of October 2043.
If I were to complete this life’s missions, the 24th of October 2043 would be the natural date for me to “pass away”. (I strongly dislike that euphemism.)
Born 24 October 1967
Died 24 October 2043
May her memory be for a blessing.
I leave you with one of my favorite poems, Ben Jonson’s epigramme “On My First Son”. Mr. Jonson was an English poet and playwright who lived from 1572 to 1637. His young son died from plague on his 7th birthday and the grief-stricken papa wrote this lovely poem giving eternal life to his love for his child, whom he calls “his best piece of poetry”. Art from sadness. Creation from pain. Ben would totally be a blogger if he were alive today. Enjoy.
On my First Son
By Ben Jonson 1572–1637 Ben Jonson
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy.
Seven years tho’ wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon ‘scap’d world’s and flesh’s rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say, “Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.”
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
“Birthday Morbidity.” is copyright © 2014 by 18mitzvot. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
With blessings to Ben Jonson.
You must log in to post a comment.