We all have a birthday, and today is mine.  But what's a birthday?  A birthday is a point on a narrative, another steppingstone on an adventure on which all of us are embarked, every moment of every day.  It's a reminder of joy, it's a recollection of sorrow; birthdays encapsulate the stuff of existence.
     When I think about my earliest years, years when I wondered why I was here, why I was doing what I was doing, why I was being told to believe the things I was told to believe, I often wonder:  how did I get to where I am today?  I have no idea.  Yes, I planned, and yes, I tried to execute intentions, yes, I went here and there, and yes, things happened, but in the end I have no clear idea of how I landed on today.  Who does?  We're all living in a universe we did not make, a universe over which we ultimately have very little control.
     All we know is that life is a promise and expectation, an inkling and anticipation, a river and ocean coming constantly together in a creation we do not really make:  it's the work of life itself.  Moreover, whether we know it or not, life in turn is the work of, if we wish to render the world meaningful, God.  We are poems with a point, poems with a destiny, poems with a conclusion.  We are poems of eternity. Otherwise, it's futility.  
     Here's to birthdays!
     By the way, I'll be traveling for the rest of the week to attend a conference.  See you next week!