What Dreams Are Made Of – a poem for turning 31

Like everyone who ever turns 30 and then 31 and then 32, you realize how un-old that actually turns out to be.

Of course, there is the reality of getting older and I think you become more generally and practically aware of your humanity and that you won’t be young forever.

I’ve also discovered those kitchen mats are more than just for decor… I now notice when I’m not standing with both feet on that cushy mat by the kitchen sink. I need that extra comfort now, heheee!

For many years I have celebrated my birthday and honored my story by summing it up in a birthday post of some sort.

Last year, I stuck 30 literal candles on my birthday pie, skipped the blog post, and wrote a whole new poetry book called Carol of the Mourning Dove which I think counts as that “blog post” as I covered so much about life in my late twenties, the loss of childhood friends, and the stories of my life that brought me to thirty with the hope of the Lord and the reality of God woven in every ebb and flow.

But this year I turned thirty-one. And that’s kind of wild.

And also, sweet.

So consider the poem below in a new style I’m experimenting with as my birthday blog post. The way I’m celebrating this life and all the dreams I’m living in…

This is thirty-one. And excuse the dull adjectives writers aren’t supposed to use in their writing, but how beautiful, how nice.