Happy Birthday John Cleese, Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. And me.

Today is my birthday.
I was born on the 27th of October. It was a Tuesday.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
At least that's what that poem says.

My birthday actually lasts a week. Everyone knows it. I love that everyone knows it.
For many years, the celebration was usually on Halloween. It was as if my birthday was my own personal Mardi Gras. Over time, it evolved, due to busy schedules, and social anxiety in crowds. Preferring to stick to individual meetings or small groups, the week stretches until All Hallows

While events happen on either side of my birthday, I love to spend October 27th by myself.
Last year I took myself out to lunch and a pedicure. This year, I took pictures.
For a while, I was on leaf- covered paths through the woods, then in one of the beautiful old graveyards in Halifax.
The day was a perfect testament to the glory of this season. The afternoon autumn air was as crisp as the fallen foliage under foot, and I tried to capture the feeling through the lens.
As is often the case, I was blissfully lost in micro scenes.

When the light was fading I chose to sit on the patio of a local pub with a slice of today's special. As I watched the crowd, one of the passers-by did not pass.
She swooped down into my face. Facebook told her it was my birthday.
But she looked unsure.
She asked hopefully if I was waiting for someone.
I told her I was all by myself.

She actually looked sad, but gave me a mouth-smile. Her eyes looked like "poor thing spending her birthday all alone" eyes.

It made me smile.
I may have looked like a maniac, grinning like a carved pumpkin. In any case, she moved along.
I continued to smile.

It made me realize how lucky I am that being in my own company makes me happy.
Tuesday's child is full of gratitude