To Celebrate

Celebration--in my opinion--should occur all the time.  Every day, no matter your circumstances, in a variety of ways.  If you don't choose to celebrate the mere fact that you have been given life, there is no point to living it.  Life, after all, can be overwhelmingly depressing if you think about it too much.  And, as one who tends to think more than anything else, celebration helps to remind me:

You're alive.  Get out of your head, and be alive. 

So though I'm persistently aware of the celebration inherent in a typical day, sometimes there are occasions that require more specific Celebration.

I'm sure you're thinking: Balloons.

I am here to tell you, however, that for a person who gets overwhelmed by the thoughts in her head, sometimes even specific celebration needs to be done quietly.  With love.  So that no freaking out occurs over the implications of what this large and life-changing event means.

I know this, because recently I had occasion to engage in such a specific celebration, and here's the official announcement:

I passed my comps.  I'm an ABD--all but dissertation.  Meaning, I've jumped through all hoops but one, and can now say I'm closing in on that title that still seems a bit bizarre: Dr. 

Last Friday, I met with my committee for 2 hours, discussing my exam, my research, my life.  At the end they congratulated me, and I was free to go out and celebrate in any way I chose.  So I did:

Quietly, with the variety of people that make up my life, with love swirled all the way through and around.

First, I had a delightful lunch with some of my lovely students,

involving laughter, getting to know each other better, and lasagna.

Then, I went to Heather's and crashed on her couch with a mug of tea while children swirled about and salt ornaments baked.

No agenda, just being. (Quietly, with love, and a few aromatic candles.)

Later, I made my way over to babysit two of my favorite little people--my first State College piano students, who have consistently reminded me through their love toward me that to be a child is to love, with no apparent reason other than that you can.

They had a well thought out plan that suggests they are fully aware of how to turn any old night into a celebration: Operation, eating pizza, playing trombone & piano, having a mini-Christmas party (which involved the making of ornaments for each other) and finally, the watching of a movie.

When the movie was over, we sleepily told stories about our lives until their parents returned.

As I drove home, reflecting on a day that screamed "Celebrate!" unlike most others, I realized how grateful I am for the quietness, and for the gift of just being with those who have come to matter.

I realized that my heart was celebrating, almost on its own.

And now, after a week full of a variety of people and a slow sinking in of being in this new phase of life, I am newly aware of the significance of what I already knew:

To celebrate is to live, no matter how it's done.