On Parties, Pugmarks and Turning Forty!

January moved differently.

It was quieter than my usual months, and quieter in ways that were not immediately obvious. I posted far less. I read less, though what I did read stayed with me longer than usual, as if the mind was unwilling to rush on. Writing too slowed down. The novel has come to an end on paper, yet certain characters continue to occupy mental space. They argue with me, defend their choices, question mine. Perhaps this is what finishing a book really means not closure, but learning to live with unresolved interiors. Art rarely ends. It merely stops asking for daily labour.

I also turned forty.

The number arrived without melodrama. No crisis, no dramatic reassessment, just a quiet acknowledgement that time has been doing its job efficiently. Forty is often treated as a verdict, but it felt more like a threshold. A point where one stops rehearsing and starts acting. It helped to remember that many people began their most consequential work at this age. Stan Lee created Fantastic Four at forty. Tolkien began writing The Hobbit at forty. Samuel L Jackson’s first real breakthrough came at forty. Alfred Nobel invented dynamite at forty. Henry Ford founded his motor company at forty. Patterns like these do not promise success, but they do dismantle the myth that beginnings belong only to the young.

Mid month, I went on a short road trip with friends who are much younger than me and very invested in reminding me of that fact. On the night of the thirteenth, they kept me awake with silly games and relentless energy, and then surprised me with a birthday celebration. Lights, cake, hugs, photographs. There is something quietly humbling about being celebrated without having to perform for it. Warmth, when unearned, has a different texture.

The following morning arrived with new light and cleaner air. I found myself bobbing in the back of a Gypsy, cutting through a dry jungle, scanning every line of grass and every shadow for a tiger. There were pugmarks everywhere. There was also an impressive abundance of poop. The tiger, however, chose absence. Which felt appropriate. The jungle reminded me that presence is never guaranteed, and that not seeing something does not mean it was not there. Desire often trains the eye poorly.

I returned with photographs that pleased me deeply. I had not flexed the lens muscles in a long time. After a brief hiatus, my Nikon was back where it belongs, among dust, branches, uncertain light, and long waits. It has now been to five national parks, and I was glad January could add one more to that quiet archive. Cameras, like minds, need terrain to stay honest.

If nothing else, January let me drive. Properly drive. National highways, rural roads, and stretches of off roading that demand attention rather than speed. Before the vehicle gets refitted, I managed to take it across two states. There is something philosophical about driving long distances. You move forward constantly, yet spend most of the time inside your own head. The engine hums, the road unfolds, and thoughts rearrange themselves without being summoned.

Work wise, the month signals movement. A seminar to prepare for. A book review to write. My first podcast appearance as a teacher. An HLF day. Enough engagements to feel purposeful without feeling crowded. Enough responsibility to remain alert.

So this was January. Quieter than usual, but not empty. Slower, but not stagnant.

And I find myself looking forward to another special day soon. Some milestones ask to be announced. Others arrive best when one is attentive, slightly amused, and willing to let meaning reveal itself gradually, like a tiger that may or may not choose to step into view.