Now I am fifty. Rambling autobiography.

I woke up this morning and I was still the same person as yesterday, the same ten fingers and toes, the same body and face, the same heart beating strong, and no sudden appearance of extra wrinkles nor arrival of massive grey hair, nor disappearance of teeth or mind. Yesterday's fierce wind and unexpected snow storm attempt replaced with sunshine and birdsong this morning. My mind and heart are equally calm and accepting the crossing of the mid century. 

I was born fifty years ago in the midst of deep soviet time in a small wooden apartment house with a common toilet and a water tap in hallway to fill the bucket with cold water and carry it to the kitchen. Our small two room apartment had wooden floors, a gas stove, a wood stove and oven and black and white TV. The low windows opened to the yard and under the windows my mom kept two flowerbeds and I remember the spring tulips and summer tiger lilies and the large chestnut tree that grew next to the wood shed.  My mom and sister now keep lots of flower beds in our summer house. In front of the house we had six linden trees and a grass patch that I liked to cartwheel on. I can still do a cartwheel. When I was thirteen years old we moved to a large apartment building with a bathtub and a toilet and kitchen with electric stove and oven. My parents still live there. My childhood house is long gone and instead it towers a huge concrete building. I sometimes have dreams of going home to a warm kitchen.

The sound of the coffee grinder and smell of the freshly brewed coffee usually signalled the start of the day. My dad and mom were both avid coffee drinkers. I am a tea drinker. The kitchen was also a place where my dad developed his films and it was a magical when I was allowed to join him in the darkness to see how images appeared on a paper. My dad recorded our history and later took many photos of my children. Now my daughter is the one snapping photos with her phone. My photography skills developed late and landed on collecting nature photos mostly. 

I have a husband with whom I have been married for twenty-seven years and taken dance lessons for almost two decades. Since we go only once a week, we learn new things and forget older steps and start all over again. We have no ambition to compete nor interest in demonstrating our steps in public parties. We consider dancing as memory fading prevention, the brain has to stay incredibly active to coordinate steps, turns, rhythm, direction and collaboration. The moments when we remember everything and dance without stopping make us ageless. (And out of breath tired.) 

I adore my three daughters, each amazing in their own way. The oldest (26) has been a dancer almost all her life, winning medals and owning one Estonian championship in ten dances. The middle one (25) speaks the languages of programming and has built her career in this area. The youngest (17) seems to have the most energy and things to say and is still searching who she might become, experimenting with theatre right now. We all like board games and puzzles, have conversations about books and bake pancakes, cookies, cinnamon rolls, pies and layered cakes. 

When I was ten, I wouldn't even in my wildest dreams could have imagined myself to the current times, living in a free country, having a five room apartment with all the comforts, work in an international school, have had opportunities to learn in different countries, present at conferences, stand on the Great wall of China or visit bookstores in London, live through a pandemic, watch a war start not far from home, connect with people all over the world through blog, twitter and instagram, start a coaching course, use a phone as a computer. My dad was born before the WW2. The borders didn't open until I finished school. My family didn't get a table phone until I moved out. Now everyone has a mobile phone. I talk with my sister and mom on a phone almost daily. 

I am sitting on my living room sofa, my most favourite place in the whole wide world, wearing a super large soft red fleece with white kittens, a gift from my children. My two daughters are putting together a puzzle, one is sorting through her old photo albums, on a coffee table are two empty tea cups, on the floor are Dixit and Gourme Alias from yesterday's evening, a large flower vase with gerberas is on a windowsill, my hubby is checking whether chicken roast is ready for lunch, a carrot cake is waiting in the fridge. Yesterday we had a family dinner in a lovely small restaurant, my five year old nephew as the youngest guest and my eighty-eight year old dad as the oldest guest, eleven people all together. They sang to me. I love them. 

I am thankful that my birthday is on Sunday, a day off, so I have time to read the birthday wish messages and phone calls, to be with my family and ease into the new decade. 

I want to say to anyone else who is struggling with getting older that it's ok to feel sadness, and not to believe what others say, because you'll find your own way to come through this and when the day arrives accept it in your own terms. Having a cake and a cup of tea might help. 

All post about turning 50