milestones

Today as I write there is a 60th birthday in my New Zealand family. It is strange not being there. It made me think about a lot of things.

Here in Italy there are some old old markers along the roads, we would call them milestones, but I am not actually sure what the measurement was in Roman times. Milestones are only important if you are counting, if you have an end destination in mind. Yes, reaching a milestone is a cause for celebration, maybe. But then you sadly remember those who did not make it to such a milestone, and that can hurt. Reaching a milestone could be an excuse for a party, if you need an excuse. But life is for celebrating every day.

I am a "big picture" person, I like to know what is likely to be ahead of me. I don't like surprises, even good ones. For my own "milestone birthdays" I like to try something new. When I turned thirty I bought myself my first pair of jeans, and my first pair of running shoes. I have heard that the reason the younger generation dont wear jeans is that my generation wont stop wearing them. When I was young, young ladies didn't wear jeans, they were the domain of the worker, still being used for the original purpose for which they were designed.

For my 40th birthday, I was torn between a trip in a hot air balloon or ice skating. Ice skating was a childhood dream. I loved to skate, and my rollerskates were well worn on the bumpy cracks in the concrete at the Marumaru Memorial Hall. In the torchlight under my blankets I read stories of ice skating, and dreamed that I too would twirl elegantly around on the ice. I made it to an ice-skating rink at 41, only one year later than planned. It was wonderful... until in a moment of lost concentration I ended up on my tail bone. Recovery was slow and painful.

My fiftieth birthday plan was to go up in a glider. Another wish I have held for a long long time. But I was busy in the middle of my MFA degree, and it seemed that I should be content with that. The glider could wait until I turned 55. That birthday happened last year, with large cake and candles, here in Italy. Red wine, family and friends, but no glider.

I have often asked myself why I love to be up high, need to live on a hill, and prefer to go on holidays when I can fly somewhere. Why did it always seem that if I went by car, driver or not, my problems seemed to follow me? There was no sense of real release from daily grind. I decided, once I began flying as a passenger alone, that a large part of that was to do with giving away all responsibility. In the car, I was still a parent, still making decisions, still aware of all my surroundings, still completely responsible. But flying alone, from the moment of buckling up my seatbelt, I handed all responsibility to the pilot. And that act, the relinquishing of control, made even a business trip a holiday.

That doesn't explain why I need to live on a hill. But on this hill, looking out over the Liri Valley, a sea of lights by night and myriad of changing colours and patterns by day, I feel free and alive. But even here, part way up the hill, I still have the urge to climb further. My view is great, but the view from the top is so much better...



When I lived in a river valley as a child I spent most of my free time climbing hills or reading books sitting up in a tree. Yes, I love the water, and particularly love to sleep under canvas by a trickling stream. But most of all, I love being up.

I don't have a milestone of my own this month. But I don't think I need a milestone. I just need someone who will fly with me.