Happy birthday to Eleanor Teale, the flower whisperer who made everyone and everything around her bloom. Her light is still with us, growing love across the universe. ― Glendy Vanderah, Where the Forest Meets the Stars

(Have you ever been to the birthday party of someone who has a really mixed group of friends and the white people start singing the regular version of Happy Birthday, which, honestly, rivals Streets of Philadelphia for atonal glumness, and the black people launch into Stevie’s version and then everyone gets really confused because the white people have no idea what just happened? That’s my FAVORITE thing, because I like to imagine that for a brief second the white people think that they’ve slid into an alternate reality and they have to question everything they know to be true and, honestly, that’s reparations. A split second of reparations.) ― R. Eric Thomas, Here for It: Or, How to Save Your Soul in America; Essays

(Have you ever been to the birthday party of someone who has a really mixed group of friends and the white people start singing the regular version of Happy Birthday, which, honestly, rivals Streets of Philadelphia for atonal glumness, and the black people launch into Stevie’s version and then everyone gets really confused because the white people have no idea what just happened? That’s my FAVORITE thing, because I like to imagine that for a brief second the white people think that they’ve slid into an alternate reality and they have to question everything they know to be true and, honestly, that’s reparations. A split second of reparations.)
― R. Eric Thomas,

Here for It: Or, How to Save Your Soul in America; Essays

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I feel so lucky to have you as my friend. Hope your birthday is as special as you are.May all of your dreams come true. Thanks for being such a great friend. Happy birthday! ― Ahsan Seehar

I feel so lucky to have you as my friend. Hope your birthday is as special as you are.May all of your dreams come true. Thanks for being such a great friend. Happy birthday!
― Ahsan Seehar

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Today is the birthday of my most precious people. Today is the birthday of my son OSSAMA, the joy of my life. Today, March 1, with the start of spring, and the first day in the days of the brightest season is his birthday. Every year, you are my greatest joy. Happy new year to you, my highest people ― MAHMOUD HORCHANI

Today is the birthday of my most precious people. Today is the birthday of my son OSSAMA, the joy of my life. Today, March 1, with the start of spring, and the first day in the days of the brightest season is his birthday. Every year, you are my greatest joy. Happy new year to you, my highest people
― MAHMOUD HORCHANI

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Happiest birthday leapers—realize this, leapers are exceptional gems, born in a leap year—and guess what? They age 4 times slower than everyone else! To my leapers, greater grace, more wins.All my love,Mercy Seaphrora IV ― Princess Dr. Mercy Uwakwe

Happiest birthday leapers—realize this, leapers are exceptional gems, born in a leap year—and guess what? They age 4 times slower than everyone else! To my leapers, greater grace, more wins.All my love,Mercy Seaphrora IV
― Princess Dr. Mercy Uwakwe

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On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.Faceless and pale as chinaThe round sky goes on minding its business.Your absence is inconspicuous;Nobody can tell what I lack.Gulls have threaded the river’s mud bed backTo this crest of grass. Inland, they argue,Settling and stirring like blown paperOr the hands of an invalid. The wanSun manages to strike such tin glintsFrom the linked ponds that my eyes winceAnd brim; the city melts like sugar.A crocodile of small girlsKnotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms,Opens to swallow me. I’m a stone, a stick,One child drops a carrette of pink plastic;None of them seem to notice.Their shrill, gravelly gossip’s funneled off.Now silence after silence offers itself.The wind stops my breath like a bandage.Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudgeSwaddles roof and tree.It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank.I suppose it’s pointless to think of you at all.Already your doll grip lets go.The tumulus, even at noon, guargs its black shadow:You know me less constant,Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.These faithful dark-boughed cypressesBrood, rooted in their heaped losses.Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat.I lose sight of you on your blind journey,While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivuletsUnpool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them,Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem.The day empties its imagesLike a cup of a room. The moon’s crook whitens,Thin as the skin seaming a scar.Now, on the nursery wall,The blue night plants, the little pale blue hillIn your sister’s birthday picture start to glow.The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrusLight up. Each rabbit-earedBlue shrub behind the glassExhales an indigo nimbus,A sort of cellophane balloon.The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife.Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light;I enter the lit house. ― Sylvia Plath

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.Faceless and pale as chinaThe round sky goes on minding its business.Your absence is inconspicuous;Nobody can tell what I lack.Gulls have threaded the river’s mud bed backTo this crest of grass. Inland, they argue,Settling and stirring like blown paperOr the hands of an invalid. The wanSun manages to strike such tin glintsFrom the linked ponds that my eyes winceAnd brim; the city melts like sugar.A crocodile of small girlsKnotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms,Opens to swallow me. I’m a stone, a stick,One child drops a carrette of pink plastic;None of them seem to notice.Their shrill, gravelly gossip’s funneled off.Now silence after silence offers itself.The wind stops my breath like a bandage.Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudgeSwaddles roof and tree.It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank.I suppose it’s pointless to think of you at all.Already your doll grip lets go.The tumulus, even at noon, guargs its black shadow:You know me less constant,Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.These faithful dark-boughed cypressesBrood, rooted in their heaped losses.Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat.I lose sight of you on your blind journey,While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivuletsUnpool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them,Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem.The day empties its imagesLike a cup of a room. The moon’s crook whitens,Thin as the skin seaming a scar.Now, on the nursery wall,The blue night plants, the little pale blue hillIn your sister’s birthday picture start to glow.The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrusLight up. Each rabbit-earedBlue shrub behind the glassExhales an indigo nimbus,A sort of cellophane balloon.The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife.Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light;I enter the lit house.
― Sylvia Plath

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Large-scale elements signal that something different and important is happening in the life of a community. Giant balloons, numbers (for a birthday party), hearts (for Valentine’s Day), baby blocks (for a shower), and other big things stand out as different from everyday décor. ― Ingrid Fetell Lee, Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness

Large-scale elements signal that something different and important is happening in the life of a community. Giant balloons, numbers (for a birthday party), hearts (for Valentine’s Day), baby blocks (for a shower), and other big things stand out as different from everyday décor.
― Ingrid Fetell Lee,

Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness

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From the moment our ancestors first danced around a fire, cinders flickering in the darkened sky, celebrations have inspired us to light up the night. With fireworks and lanterns, birthday candles and bonfires, festive occasions chase away the shadows and carve out a space for joy within the darkness. It’s hard to imagine now, in a world that glows with electric light, how rare and special it once was to see the world lit up at night. But until the advent of gas-lit streetlamps in the early nineteenth century, most cities were completely dark after sunset. ― Ingrid Fetell Lee, Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness

From the moment our ancestors first danced around a fire, cinders flickering in the darkened sky, celebrations have inspired us to light up the night. With fireworks and lanterns, birthday candles and bonfires, festive occasions chase away the shadows and carve out a space for joy within the darkness. It’s hard to imagine now, in a world that glows with electric light, how rare and special it once was to see the world lit up at night. But until the advent of gas-lit streetlamps in the early nineteenth century, most cities were completely dark after sunset.
― Ingrid Fetell Lee,

Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness

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The thing about being barren is that you’re not allowed to get away from it. Not when you’re in your thirties. My friends were having children, friends of friends were having children, pregnancy and birth and first birthday parties were everywhere. I was asked about it all the time. My mother, our friends, colleagues at work. When was it going to be my turn? At some point our childlessness became an acceptable topic of Sunday-lunch conversation, not just between Tom and me, but more generally. What we were trying, what we should be doing, do you really think you should be having a second glass of wine? I was still young, there was still plenty of time, but failure cloaked me like a mantle, it overwhelmed me, dragged me under, and I gave up hope. At the time, I resented the fact that it was always seen as my fault, that I was the one letting the side down. But as the speed with which he managed to impregnate Anna demonstrates, there was never any problem with Tom’s virility. I was wrong to suggest that we should share the blame; it was all down to me. Lara, my best friend since university, had two children in two years: a boy first and then a girl. I didn’t like them. I didn’t want to hear anything about them. I didn’t want to be near them. Lara stopped speaking to me after a while. There was a girl at work who told me—casually, as though she were talking about an appendectomy or a wisdom-tooth extraction—that she’d recently had an abortion, a medical one, and it was so much less traumatic than the surgical one she’d had when she was at university. I couldn’t speak to her after that, I could barely look at her. Things became awkward in the office; people noticed. Tom didn’t feel the way I did. It wasn’t his failure, for starters, and in any case, he didn’t need a child like I did. He wanted to be a dad, he really did—I’m sure he daydreamed about kicking a football around in the garden with his son, or carrying his daughter on his shoulders in the park. But he thought our lives could be great without children, too. We’re happy, he used to say to me. Why can’t we just go on being happy? He became frustrated with me. He never understood that it’s possible to miss what you’ve never had, to mourn for it. ― Paula Hawkins, The Girl on the Train

The thing about being barren is that you’re not allowed to get away from it. Not when you’re in your thirties. My friends were having children, friends of friends were having children, pregnancy and birth and first birthday parties were everywhere. I was asked about it all the time. My mother, our friends, colleagues at work. When was it going to be my turn? At some point our childlessness became an acceptable topic of Sunday-lunch conversation, not just between Tom and me, but more generally. What we were trying, what we should be doing, do you really think you should be having a second glass of wine? I was still young, there was still plenty of time, but failure cloaked me like a mantle, it overwhelmed me, dragged me under, and I gave up hope. At the time, I resented the fact that it was always seen as my fault, that I was the one letting the side down. But as the speed with which he managed to impregnate Anna demonstrates, there was never any problem with Tom’s virility. I was wrong to suggest that we should share the blame; it was all down to me. Lara, my best friend since university, had two children in two years: a boy first and then a girl. I didn’t like them. I didn’t want to hear anything about them. I didn’t want to be near them. Lara stopped speaking to me after a while. There was a girl at work who told me—casually, as though she were talking about an appendectomy or a wisdom-tooth extraction—that she’d recently had an abortion, a medical one, and it was so much less traumatic than the surgical one she’d had when she was at university. I couldn’t speak to her after that, I could barely look at her. Things became awkward in the office; people noticed. Tom didn’t feel the way I did. It wasn’t his failure, for starters, and in any case, he didn’t need a child like I did. He wanted to be a dad, he really did—I’m sure he daydreamed about kicking a football around in the garden with his son, or carrying his daughter on his shoulders in the park. But he thought our lives could be great without children, too. We’re happy, he used to say to me. Why can’t we just go on being happy? He became frustrated with me. He never understood that it’s possible to miss what you’ve never had, to mourn for it.
― Paula Hawkins,

The Girl on the Train

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There are many cells in your body that are dying as you read these words. Fifty to seventy billion cells die each day in the average human adult. You are too busy to organise funerals for all of them! At the very same time, new cells are being born, and you don’t have the time to sing Happy Birthday to them. If old cells don’t die, there’s no chance for new cells to be born. So death is a very good thing. It’s very crucial for birth. You are undergoing birth and death in this very moment. ― Thich Nhat Hanh, No Mud, No Lotus: The Art of Transforming Suffering

There are many cells in your body that are dying as you read these words. Fifty to seventy billion cells die each day in the average human adult. You are too busy to organise funerals for all of them! At the very same time, new cells are being born, and you don’t have the time to sing Happy Birthday to them. If old cells don’t die, there’s no chance for new cells to be born. So death is a very good thing. It’s very crucial for birth. You are undergoing birth and death in this very moment.
― Thich Nhat Hanh,

No Mud, No Lotus: The Art of Transforming Suffering

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