The usual birthday every year consists of mundane things. I normally try to avoid the birthday fuss, because I don't see the point of celebrating your birth. I'm not a great humanitarian, I've done little for Africa, and I didn't push my way out of the womb (that was the effort of my mom, whom we should be thanking, if we want to celebrate my birthday). I come with little life-experience that common-place men would deem worthy of attention. I don't sing well in spite of being impoverished, I haven't given millions in spite of being a begger, and I don't teach blind dogs how to be seeing-eye dogs, in spite of being blind myself. There is nothing extra-ordinary about me. But I am alive in spite of being just a wisp of smoke that could vanish at any moment. And that is the grace of God, whom I will thank, even if I won't celebrate my birthday.
This year, I did less mundane things. Yesterday I spent a large portion of time in the public transport system. I carried a camera around my neck, and barely utilised it. I ate, and laughed, and hung out. And when the night came to a close, I found myself smiling, and being happy that this was part of my birthday. I found myself happy at the prospect of having a birthday-something. And I found out that allowing myself to feel special is a wonderful feeling.
And just a few hours ago, my Dad treated me to one of the longest lunches I've had in awhile. It's lamb chop at a coffee-shop near my house, and as mundane as that sounds... the meal was one of the best I've ever had in a long, long, time. I found myself smiling again, because that meal made me feel special, with it's well-grilled meat, and it's long-lasting effects.