Now I'm 35, what's alive in me?

Birthday thoughts and meaningful questions

I heard it in circles. Women's ones. Witchy ones. Wellness ones. I heard it offered up as a way to get conversation flowing at erudite dinner parties. I’m often asked it by my best friend's dad, Jon. I read it in the book that I'm forever recommending and practicing, Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life by Marshall B. Rosenberg. I heard it a few weeks ago at a grief circle held by Ripples Collective; a group of Palestinian and Israeli activists, artists, and facilitators.

"What's alive in you?"

Or,"what's alive in your heart, right now?"

A question so rich, that I’m dedicating this letter to it. It’s not an unfamiliar concept for me, as only recently I wrote about this:

In the dictionary of self that defines and describes me, inquisitive and curious would live in the pages. Yet, they don’t quite convey how much I delight in a question. Not just in the asking of them, or answering, but the process of questioning in itself. The invitation into contemplation, thought, and growth that a question can magic up.

“What’s alive in you?”

How this question melts me. Prises me wide open. A question so compassionate in its inquiry, and loving in its approach. If "how are you?" hangs out on the surface, then "what's alive in you?" is in the Earth’s inner core. It gets right into your soul, as opposed to the polite chatter that has become such a convention that it no longer needs an answer. This question invites your heart to speak, offering you a pause to ponder and meditate before uttering a word.

In a society that pushes us to speed up, walk faster, work harder, rush onto trains before letting people off, and chew quicker to free up a table before the next diners arrive, any question that asks us to sit, rest in it and reflect; is an act of care.

On the 1st of December I turned 35 and I've been reflecting on the year that was, but most of all, living in divine presence with all that is. In what has been such a nourishing week, I've been allowing a gentle conversation to rise up in me. One that didn't have an official beginning or end. Just one that's there lingering. Parts of me in conversation with other parts. From my lungs to ankles, fingertips to belly button, I’ve been asking myself, what’s alive in me right now. Here is what’s here:

What’s alive in me right now is the deepest appreciation for softness, which in retrospect is my word of the year. The gentleness in a friend stroking my wrist, holding hands, soft eyes offering someone a seat on the train, allowing myself to surrender into receiving, and skin to skin cuddles. The softness that we offer to ourselves and each other. Moving slowly and compassionately. Being patient with each other.

What’s alive in me is love, so much love my aura will show you in kaleidoscopic tones, before you see the rest of me. The love I feel when I’m talking to a girlfriend in bed with my sock curls in, until the early hours, wondering how many serial killers we might have walked past in the street. When a notification from “B” pops up on my phone and I know whatever she has to say, I yearn to hear. Looking into my partner’s eyes that have become a land I never tire of exploring, and making home in the crook of his arm. Laughing at texts from my Mum and feeling my spirit swell in gratitude for her existence. Being so deeply in love with each pigeon, snail, tree, and bee I see. So much love that exists in me that I can’t contain my excitement in supermarkets and when I see intricate carvings in buildings. I live in a state of “I can’t handle how magical existence is, I want to squish and squeeze life’s cheeks until it pops”. It’s called cute aggression, by the way.

What’s also alive in me is grief, this quiet pain that I never want to lose because it agitates me into action and audacity. The grief that kisses me on the forehead to wake me up each morning and moves me to write, plan, work, and think of any small way that I can contribute to social change. I grieve for the other mother I’ve known outside my own, this Earth. I grieve for the people across this land who could not afford to eat today. I grieve for Gaza, I grieve for Democratic Republic of the Congo, I grieve for Sudan. I grieve for the survivors of violence against women and girls. I grieve for the men who die by suicide at a higher rate. I grieve for the children who will never feel safe. I grieve at how big a problem waste is.

I grieve for those who can’t access clean water. I grieve for Black women dying in childbirth at a higher rate. I grieve for the loss of biodiversity. I grieve for the 30 million birds who are killed in the UK each day from flying into windows. I grieve for all of those suffering from inequity. I grieve each day, I grieve. I grieve, because I know what it is to feel such joy and love during the majority of my waking hours. I grieve without letting it consume me or shift into apathy and cynicism. I let grief seep into my blood, because my spirit demands it. It inspires my every creation, for grief is an expression of love.

What’s alive in me, is my inner child, with whom I grow ever closer. The panda-onesie wearing, panda cuddly toy-hugging, always giggling, creating new games, puzzle-playing, mischievous, speaking to animals, frolicking endlessly girl that lives in the cradle of my womanhood. The constant reminder to play. Treating each day as if it’s my first here, prioritising wonder, awe, pleasure and creativity.

What’s alive in me, is a knowing of who I am. There will be darker than the peak of night moments when the conditions and circumstances of life feel worthy of losing hope. There will be times when thoughts and feelings threaten to make me forget who I am. Nothing changes the fact that I am that I am. As I move through my 35th year of aliveness, I will allow what’s alive in me to be ever-changing. A question to ask myself, to ask of others. A question to remind me of the enthralling honour that it is to be alive.

So, tell me, what’s alive in you right now?