It feels like, for most people, birthdays with zeros in them have greater significance than others and, for myself, even-numbered "zeroth" birthdays are even more so, demarcating seasons of life: 20 for adulthood, 40 middle-age, and 60 old age. My past changes of seasons have been accompanied by great joy and anticipation for the future, but, as 60 looms in the dregs of this pandemic, my feelings are more complicated.
I've always had big parties for such birthdays. For my 20th in my hometown of Albuquerque, NM, I was embedded in a vibrant and engaged network of musicians, burgeoning artists who knew what they wanted out of life and were going after it with the verve of the young; that party is one of my fondest memories (what I can remember of it, anyway). When I turned 40, I was in another world, the New York City suburbs, and my wife at the time managed against all odds to surprise me with a party and friends from across the country who came to celebrate my (hopefully) halfway point; it was one of the most joyous moments of my life.
I've always imagined that, for my 60th, I'd throw a big bash: host my oldest and closest friends and laugh and celebrate what a long strange trip it's been. But, of course, that can't be right now, given the pandemic. Naturally, I'm sad about that, but I'm really sad about it, like more than makes sense on the surface of it, and I've been thinking about why. When I think about birthday parties, when I get a warm feeling in my chest over memories of past celebrations, it's not about the trappings, the cake and candles and singing, but the joy I feel being with people I love and having a sense of being myself, of being okay. There's something about the context of having everyone around me be someone who knows me and is okay with me that feels safe in ways I rarely do.
In my studies in psychology, I've found some insights into this. For example, Peter Fonagy, a clinical psychologist and researcher in the UK, has explored how and when theory of mind develops -- how do we come to see ourselves and each other as thinking things (as opposed to moving but unsentient objects)? He argued that an infant comes to see herself as a thinking thing when she sees her mother interacting with her as a thinking thing: in other words, we literally discover ourselves in the eyes of another.
My default sense of myself has been as someone with something wrong with them, something mismatched or broken, feeling like the odd kid, and often that sense has been reflected back to me when I look into others' faces: peers, teachers, colleagues, random persons I interact with. Once in a great while, though, I see mirrored in someone's eyes a person of worth, someone who is matter-of-fact-ly okay. And, even more rarely, those eyes belong to someone who goes out of their way to spend time with me, and who seems to see in my eyes the esteem I hold them in. As I've gotten older, I've learned that these people are precious, that they help me get to myself, to find and hold onto a self I want actually to be, and that with them, I can stay myself as I navigate a world filled with people who don't see me.
So, I think that's why not having a big 60th birthday party feels so hard: missing the chance to be with my friends, to see in your eyes a person who is okay, but even more importantly, to tell you how grateful I am for you, that without you I would never have become the person I am at 60, someone I'm glad to be.
Thanks.