In the course of a few weeks we pass a collection of significant dates. It’s a tell of the family which get marked publicly and which we simply mention to each other before bed. Some are full-on celebrations, balloons signs cake and parties. Some are family dates we remember with calls, with FaceTime and gratitude.

Some are the quieter memorials of a text or two to those who know, marked with no conversation.

These moments, each of them important each of them a humbling note of what it means to still be alive, are our lives. They are the summer of twenty twenty five. And yet in some way they are new, too.

Three years old is a step above two, as far as language and dexterity go. Surely each year will feel this way, at least until 30. It’s a fact that doesn’t take away from the sense of importance.

Likewise our parents aging no longer seems like a given, instead requiring some gratitude. These are the shifts of middle age.

And then too there are the milestones of injury and recovery, which have silenced this site the past few weeks. We heal, we breathe, and we inch back towards the people we aim to be. Mostly we are grateful for the support, and even more so that it has been so long since we needed as much.