I turned 24 on Monday. A lovely birthday in every right. I skipped work and made peach pancakes, went to yoga, ate pupusas and saw the Kerry James Marshall show at MOCA, which was as good as everyone claimed. I walked down to the flower district and bought a snake plant and took the bus home and drank a lot of peach sangria and ate chocolate cake. I wore my hair in two braids pinned in a crown around my head, and my favorite earrings, the ones that look like contour drawings of hands. Sam and I’s birthdays are one day apart, a fact we tell everyone. I’ve written that here before and I am writing it again. It doesn’t have much relevance to anything, but it delights us, and that alone seems like a good enough reason.
Every year on my birthday I feel like I should write something. The words for these posts don’t come as easily as my annual Thanksgiving and New Years ones, come June 19th I draw a blank. If I must, I would say 23 was a year of building. 22 was a year of leaving, of gathering the courage to do something new, to move forward. 23 required me to gather the courage to stay, the bravery to build a life. To say, I care and I want you to care too. I’ve built a life in LA, and I still feel surprised by it. I look around and realize I have friends, I have an art practice, I have dental insurance, I have half a dozen houseplants that are downright thriving, a burgeoning art collection I’m excited to expand. I feel surprised and lucky, but I shouldn’t, because I worked so hard to get here. I tried so hard, and I still can’t believe it paid off.