Birthday Card

 

Today is my wife’s 76^th birthday. It’s also my beloved colleague James Harding’s birthday (62), former student who I taught in 1972 Julie “Ralf” Gottschalk’s birthday (66), Eddie Corwin, SF School alum student and son of the former cook (40) and three or four other folks I know personally. Can’t think of any other day of the year that has so many friends sharing the same birthday!

 

It's no secret that my wife Karen loves to walk out in the natural world. In the past two weeks, she, Talia and I snowshoed near Yosemite, then a group of 14 family and friends did our annual “New Year” walk in Marin (Talia included), then Karen and I and three other SF School alum teachers hiked down on the Peninsula and today, on her birthday, she, Talia and I went south again for a 7 mile walk with lush green hills, sweeping views, intimate California chapparal. 

Then back to Talia’s house for a little cake and ice cream and yes, I did write her a card and before giving it to her, read out loud this Mary Oliver poem: 

 

The Whistler

Mary Oliver

 

All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden
I mean that for more than thirty years she had not
whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was
in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and
she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and
cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds war-
bled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.

 

Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she
said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can
still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled
through the house, whistling.

 

I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle-
Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too.

And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin
to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with
for thirty years?

 

This clear, dark, lovely whistler?

 

Then read out loud my little note on my card, revealing my choice of this poem. Also it should be noted that we also learn new things about people when we discover that they can’t do. A few years back, it was revealed that Karen can’t whistle. Hence, the last line:

 

I chose this poem as an example of our capacity to surprise both ourselves and each other. While holding fast to the marvelous gifts and passions that define us, it’s good to keep the windows open to new possibilities. 

 

Just in the past two weeks, I discovered that you’re pretty good at the game of pool, both good and capable of enjoying jigsaw puzzles and that you’re a budding botanist who taught me about the Goldback slap, the leaf that makes an imprint on your pants because of spores. Surprises all! Like Mary Oliver, it makes me wonder “Who is this I’ve been living with for fifty-two years?!!!”

 

Next step—whistling!

 

Happy birthday!

 

PS After reading all this, Karen reminded me that she also doesn’t know how to snap her fingers. 

PSS Here's what the imprints look like: