On becoming 40
Reflections from a day spent alone
This body turned 40 on Friday.
17th October.
At 13:10, if we’re being precise.
“Turned” feels a strange word.
Turned to where? From where?
Perhaps this body became 40 on Friday.
Or maybe this body is becoming.
These last 6 months (by the Gregorian calendar - how many moon cycles has that been?) has been a strange one, as others have declared disbelief at my age.
“No! I thought you were early 30s / late 20s!” [delete as appropriate].
I’ve felt smug at the protestations. Validated.
So many of us crave youth.
But I don’t find myself craving youth, now.
I’m proud of who I am becoming, with the support of so many these last 4ish years.
I cherish the communities, the companions, I have found. Or who have found me. Or perhaps we have found each other. I continue to be raised by the village.
Within these spaces and places, I can feel the shrinking and smallness of my youth fracturing. Something else emerging in its place, something bolder, bigger, more present. More willing to face some (yes, only some) of the fears that nip at my sides.
I have been schooled by Oak on my wrinkles, on my legs, on my aging.
Earlier this year, while trying to clear a ‘blockage’ from my throat I felt was preventing me from using my voice, the words, “I am your tongue” came to me, loud and clear.
Surprise, laughter, followed.
It has become easier to use my voice since.
And.
And.
And alongside it all, how I feel about this body remains a continuing symptom of a discontent, an unhappiness, I have still not been able to liberate myself from.
Rooted in body displeasure, body disconnect, body distrust, body dis-ease.
Rooted in body norms, body judgment, body shame.
What does it mean, for this body to be becoming after its fourtieth cycle around the sun? What has been asked to be left in the era of thirties, if anything, and what has been asked to be taken forth into the next?
Is it even meaningful to consider these numbers, in these ways?
I think of all we have been socialised to believe about not only 40, but a woman who is 40. The way I live my life. The way I have lived it, these last few decades of adulthood. The decisions and choices I’ve made. Those I’ve failed to make. What I wish could be different, what I am joyful about.
Away from it all, a single question emerges:
What does this body wish for?
On Friday, for the first time, I spent my birthday alone.
A chance to rest. Be still. Listen.
Amongst the internal quiet, three ‘truths’ came for me.
This body craves pleasure.
Not in a narrow form. But in an expansive one.
Enjoyment and curiosity of sensation: physical, emotional, spiritual, relational.
Last month, I laughed bells as the sea toyed with me, and at how joyous it felt. I smiled at the breeze on my skin.
On my birthday, again, I felt held by water, and melted into the somatic.
adrienne maree brown’s “Pleasure Activism” calls for me. Movement calls. Richness of music, scents, sights, the senses, relationships, experiences.
This body craves care.
Not a healing of my relationship with ‘it’. But a healing of the separation of self and body.
This body is me. My relationship with ‘it’ is my relationship with self.
“My body” feels like a stake of ownership for a self; the language demands separation. But “this body”? “This body” craves a remembering of self as body.
Sonya Renee Taylor’s “The Body Is Not An Apology” calls for me. Integration calls. Forgiveness, healing, looking into shadows, unlearning of body norms, body activism.
This body craves stillness.
Not at the expense of movement and pleasure and ecstasy. But to be able to hear her feelings, words, wisdoms. To be able to hear those of others. Including of the more-than-human.
These last few months, I have felt this brain increasingly fritzing again, tiptoeing towards burnout while I look the other way. Rather than slowing down – as I know and have learned through painful experience I ought – I have sped up.
On Friday, I remembered stillness. I could hear what this body craves.
I’ve not written in what feels like so long.
I wish again to feel the ocean within me, the heartbeat of all life within me, to feel my breath shift into a deeper, clearer pattern, to feel my words spill onto the page in music.
I yearn for this poetic, soft, drifting voice of mine.
My lapsed practices of meditating, resting on the page, protecting time for self, all call.
Slowness, calls.
I realise I can’t fully serve others without also having my own stillness. That without it, I cannot hold space for others with compassion and love and humour, as I so long to do now.
I realise I cannot listen enough to write in this voice, without also allowing it the stillness it needs to be heard.
Pleasure.
Body-self.
Stillness.
This is 40.
This is an expansion of a post originally shared on Instagram.
P.S. I’ve started running a weekly(ish) quiet writing space online, for free. You can see upcoming dates and RSVP over on www.shimritjanes.com.
It’s a low-pressure, warm space. We simply share our writing intentions with each other at the start, go on mute for 90 minutes as we each focus on whatever wishes to come out onto the page, and then check out together at the end on how the time has been for us.
If you’re looking for a quiet circle in which to have a writing practice, you are more than welcome to join us.
Beautiful
See you soon to write dear soul