Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

My age says I should no longer hold lengthy conversations about the greatest moments in The Muppets repertoire, consort with Smurfs, or linger over trinkets in a bargain bin  marked with Mr. Men and Little Miss.   My age implies thoughts should angle  toward savings bonds, health insurance,  mortgages, property value. My age insists the time to feel care-free and fresh  is past -- now is time for my childlike soul to run on fumes until it just gives out, pulls over, and waits to hitch another ride,  eventually the first part of the trip  disappearing in the distance of a rear-view mirror. Today I am 30.   And what once made me a tad anxious,  now makes me proud.   Three decades under the belt, a fourth just beginning.  The first three were practice anyway . . .  the fourth offers a chance to take what was good  and polish it up for the next run.   The chance to take what was bad, hold it close and nurture out the pain  and fail

  In less than a month now I will be hitting a bit of a milestone.  I will be turning 30.  I will have officially expanded my journey into four different decades.  I'm not completely sure how I feel about this.  It's a mixed bag -- part sadness, part eagerness, and part reluctance.  When I first started thinking about the upcoming September 30 (it's my golden birthday this year, by the way) I began to feel anxious.  30?!  But what have I done in 30 years?  What have I accomplished?  Aren't I still just a kid?  Shouldn't I have a house, and kids, and a career?  In your 20's it's common and perhaps even expected that you haven't done or do not have those things yet.  20's are all about transforming yourself into your adult skin, finding who you are outside of childhood, school, and parents.  30's are . . . well, aren't they . . . well, aren't you supposed to be who you are meant to be by then -- settled, stable, done with figuring thin