Measuring Time

I turned fifty last weekend, although “turned” feels too active a verb. The earth did the turning. All I did was wake up and because of how we measure time in years around the sun, I find myself a year older.

It’s February, and the seasons are starting to change; the planet is doing the work of transforming from winter to spring in our Northern Hemisphere. The world spins and we spin with it, measuring our lives in beginnings and endings: The life of a mayfly in 24 hours, the ruby-throated hummingbird in three to four years. Our beloved cats and dogs may get 10 to 15 years. Macaws can live 60 to 80 years old, and Galapagos Giant Tortoises can live to be over 100. On the other end of that spectrum, there are Redwoods in California that are 2000 years old and a Norway spruce on Fulufjället Mountain, Sweden has lived over 9,500 years.

I must be ancient to the mayfly and barely register in the long life of that Norway spruce.

Age is most definitely relative.

Yet just like the other creatures, all we get is a lifetime, and we don’t usually know how long that is going to be.

In the days leading up to and following my birthday, I have been filled with gratitude for the experiences and relationships of my fifty years: the love I have been given and shared, the stories that shaped me, the people I have known, the moments of…