I'm 40 today. So weird. I still feel about 10 inside. It's cool to know that growing up doesn't mean we become totally different people, that some voice inside us stays whole and true even as we morph and grow.

I had the sweetest birthday party yesterday--in lieu of presents, I asked people to bring poems/quotes/songs/blessings that spoke to turning 40. I was showered with the most beautiful words and thoughts, from spontaneous on-the-spot rhymes to Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese" to a long, loving letter from my dad. Plus my mom brought a fabulous brunch spread; the whole day was a feast, in every possible way. I'm still feeling sated and grateful.

This morning, I went ice skating. It felt like the right way to usher in this new decade--the freedom and fun and nostalgia of it, a way to both honor my past and glide into the future. As I was skating, a bright pink balloon drifted onto the ice, a bit withered but still buoyant with helium, probably left over from a weekend party, "Happy Birthday from Icetown" printed on its side. The bottom of the string was tied into a wrist loop. I slipped it onto my own wrist and let the pink orb bob above me as I skated--my festive dance partner, my touch of magic on this landmark day. The tshirt says it all.