My life is shifting.

Tectonic plates of past, present and future do the bump-and-grind, and I have to laugh. There is movement, suddenly, beautifully. And in spite of the churning, as my life redefines itself, I feel more anchored, more grounded to my own earth, than I have in a very, very long time.

I just returned from San Diego, a place I’d never felt compelled to visit. But I have friends and family there. I imagined a 40th birthday bonfire on a beach, right by the surf. Did such things exist? Even wondering if I could make such an event happen was forward motion.

One week in San Diego.

More weeks in San Diego?

Three words: I met someone.

I don’t know what to make of this. This is not something I saw coming, not like this.

My birthday week was full of amazing beauty. New experiences. Just when I thought life had finished serving up surprises: a hot-air balloon ride at sunrise on my actual birthday, wine-tasting, parasailing, a tattoo (”forward,” in Icelandic), and—yes—a birthday bonfire, right by the surf, at Ocean Beach. A bouquet of pink and silver balloons tied to a beach volleyball pole alerted guests to our location. Blogger pals old and new, old friends from graduate school, and new friends gathered until 2:30 a.m., to help ring in the second half of my life. Worlds collided. I let them collide, stopped trying to compartmentalize this life of mine, trying to steer it, hard.

I let it steer itself. I let go.

It was beautiful. Faces warmer than the bonfire, smiling through flickering flames, happy for my happiness. S’mores. Burritos. Champagne. Fireworks in the distance, at Sea World. Fantastical. Magic.

I am humbled by this funny life, so full of loss and almost-loss, so full of pain and promise at the same time. I am still grieving what (and the beautiful whom) that came before.

I don’t know what will happen. I won’t guess. Not yet, not here.

But something is happening. Of that, I am certain.

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