It is the morning of my 41st birthday. Very anti-climactic, especially compared to the extravaganza on my 40th..

Although I had a wonderful night before, staying in a local hotel with my group of girlfriends, I now feel oddly sad. This feeling is not unusual for me, I suppose. So much of life is anti-climactic and disappointing. Perhaps that is why we strive for that union with spirit.

So often I am lifted by my practice, and supported by my faith, but diring times like today i realize how far I am from true self-realization. I don't imagine that being there looks like constant bouncy happiness, but I do imagine the 'hard' times are less angst-ridden.

This morning I am certainly not feeling any divinity as I plodge around the disastrously messy hotel room, cleaning up bottles, glasses, containers of food, trying not to wake up my still sleepy friends. If there were more space I would do an asana practice, but I can't even clear out a few feet. I thought about meditating, but I feel resistant. Maybe the first signs of a hangover coming on??

So I write. With a cute blue pen on hotel stationery (no computer with me). I think about the travelers who came through here, stayed in this room, and wrote letters to their loved ones. I write a letter to no one. Or maybe it's to myself?

Who actually listens to my musings? Where does change start - from a thought or someone hearling that thought? When I figure something out, where does that come from? Maybe I'm just getting philosophical in my old age.