Whenever we are away from the garden for a few days, it’s amazing the transformation that happens when you don’t see things unfurl hour by hour. Just a couple of days reveals changes that would have slowly gone unnoticed had I been watching them like water heating to a boil. This time, the seven sons’ flower tree was in bloom – something the tree had been teasing since early July when the little buds first appeared. The blooming for this one takes its sweet time, holding off until now, the very last month of summer, and the final days of August. It’s a balm and solace for the post-birthday let-down I always felt right about now.

It’s a lovely sight – and scent – to discover upon our return, and a welcome reminder that the garden still has magic to perform. The ostrich ferns may be browning up and shriveling away (after an extended showing this summer) and the cup plants have just started to fall over with each rain, getting lower and lower to the ground until they will eventually arch to the point where the stems all but break. Then they will remain there for the winter, frozen fountains of dead stems and branches notable only for the architectural interest, and whatever seed heads might remain for the birds.

That f-word is in the air again – fall – and I’m not mad about it. The garden has had its time, and after a few more weeks of glory, it will be time for its slumber. A rest more than well-earned.

The title of this post says about all the nonsensical things I wish to say, as I vamp and stall for more time away from this blog. Having spent the bulk of this past weekend with good friends, and the last couple of days with Andy in Boston, I just didn’t have the chance or heart to spill my guts out here for the umpteenth time. Check out the past few posts for gut-wrenchingly-silly soul-searching, and come back later this week when I’ve had a chance to properly collect myself from all the birthday fun and mayhem.

Sharing my birthday with a weekly blog recap is just the sort of generous endeavor I do for my soul now that I’m grown. Just kidding – Monday birthdays suck but the calendar ceased being my friend years ago. On with this weekly blog recap…

What the actual duck?

A rose for your sins, because when you sin you win.

What happens in the elevator…

Rainbow predilection.

A snippet of wisdom.

My secret super-powers.

Summer plate with all the trimmings.

The happy begonia.

End of August ambivalence.

Throwing August all away…

… or maybe just these few things, which needed to go anyway.

Rainbow reprise/reprieve.

The final night of my 50th year.

My 51st year begins in my birthday suit (if a birthday suit is a jockstrap).

Dazzlers of the Day included Michael Johnston, Steve – the Naked Florist, Kara Young and Jon Ossoff.

Today I turn fifty-fucking-one years old.

How did my 50th year go now that’s come to a close? I spoke a bit about that last night, but I’ll break it down again here.

Fifty was a wilder ride than I anticipated.

I felt the years. I felt the weight. I felt the fact that there were more days and years behind me than would ever be before me again. I felt the rush. I felt the hushed, icy lack of turned heads when I’d enter a restaurant. When you’re fifty you blend better into the background, and after fifty years of not blending into the background, there was wickedness and relief in that.

What might be most surprising is that I could still access the tumultuous emotions of life without having to actually go through any of them – a removed yet thrilling way of remembering and experiencing what I once thought solely the province of the young. My 50th year ran through gamut of emotional highs and lows, even as nothing extreme really even happened. In that respect, things got decidedly more exciting, merely from the shift in my own perspective and how I experienced everything. That bodes well for the next half of life.

As for this 51st birthday, I’m laying low and keeping things relatively quiet, enjoying a day in Boston and trying not to take any of the social media flowers too seriously. Fifty-one isn’t one of the big milestones anyway, though some might argue that anything over the halfway mark is worth celebrating. My own love/hate relationship with my birthday doesn’t find reconciliation one way or another – not quite that evolved yet but definitely working on it.

Anyway, have a gander at previous birthday posts, most of which feature some element of my birthday suit because I’m nothing if not a goddamned giver.

Birthday #50: A letter to myself because if you can’t do you on your birthday, what can you do?

Birthday #49: One on the cusp of many things.

Birthday #48: An uneventful year that faded to black.

Birthday #47: A real birthday suit post with only a sheet between me and the eyes of the world.

Birthday #46: A skinny-dipping party and I’d cry if I wanted to.

Birthday #45: Feeling young and fancy and free.

Birthday #44: A real suit for a birthday, and everybody hated it.

And for all the rest (because I’m tired of linking right now) check out this more comprehensive birthday suit post.

Most people would not welcome a rainy Sunday morning, but I’m not aligning with most people these days. On this particular morning, I step onto the front steps of our home and listen to the sound of the rain, grateful for the downtrodden aspect of atmosphere. My lifelong friend Ann has just departed after a weekend of fun and friendship rejuvenation – a time where two old friends could just relax into the easy cadence of our youth, reveling in how much things have changed – and how our friendship remains the same.

Pulling the golden streamers that framed the doorway, I toss them down and see them pool into a sparkling pretty mess. This will likely be our final Solid Gold Summer gathering – I’m too tired and apathetic to rally and plan for more golden moments – and scheduling things with kids is too impossible to try. Leaving it in the hands of others means nothing will happen, and I’m happily reconciled to that.

Spending the weekend with Ann (and a dinner with Missy and Carla) reminded us of how important it is to nourish the soul by having this kind of time together. We did little else but talk and laugh (with a quick trip to Schenectady to get some goodies at Perecca’s) and it was absolutely what we needed to highlight this tender time of summer.

I miss her already, and the rain feels like a fitting coda to complete a beautiful weekend – a happy echo that will reverberate throughout the fall and winter whenever we need a memory of joy.