Black filter coffee and just about no one up save the street sweepers as I emerge from our Belfast hotel at the same time a neighboring coffee shop props open its doors for the morning rush. Just inside I appreciate that they’re playing The National and the coffee man asks me what’s on for my day.

“It’s my birthday,” I tell the smooth faced man with the lovely Northern accent. I didn’t expect my first real words of 21 August to amount to this, nor did I imagine offering up this personal milestone to a complete stranger. But that’s the effect that the Irish have on you. You tell them things you’d never find yourself uttering to anyone else in any other place. Even on this morning of a grey washout sky against brick buildings, there’s forever an unseen current that drifts through the air and recalibrates the brains of everyone who breathes the space. North and South. East and West.

It’s been ages since I’ve lived over here, yet I am still making a fine go at returning whenever I can. My friends from college in Dublin, my friends from beyond college—and yes especially my family—at the age of forty I’ve got most of them still kicking around as we collectively make our way through an ever-turning planet of uncertainty. The news feeds, the ebb and flow of our pains, both corporeal and psychological. We’re all still busy working away at doing the things we love.

No one knows what’s around the corner, at least that’s what my Irish friend Olivia has always told me. On some days I’d believe her with blind optimism, but in my younger years (and I’m talking about last week, really) I rather had a hard time making myself feel good about this clichéd statement.  I was more impatient back then. More anxious for life to start and my credit reel to lope along like a director’s cut that is grossly disproportionate to the number of years I had tucked under my belt.

I know of course that life is one long learning continuum, and as we find ourselves growing and (hopefully) evolving, we start to see that the credit reel is mischaracterized. The sweet hereafter that we think should be the credits is actually everything that comes before. The fast-clip and high-stress moments that leave you grasping for more coffee, sleep or weed-infused brownies (note: that last bit is not an option for me, but I know of other forty year olds who…).

So whatever. This morning in Belfast I am officially a year older. The bar man just brought me my breakfast: a repast fit for the forty-year-old that I now identify as: plain porridge sprinkled with homemade Nutella and a drizzle of orange zest syrup. The porridge is in celebration of the fact that I have always felt like a bland old person trapped in a younger body. The Nutella and orange represents the kid in me who loves a bit of sweet first thing in the morning, but the mix of orange, chocolate and hazelnut are reminiscent of flavors that I was first exposed to while living as a teenager in southeastern France. I love it all.

And then, of course, there’s the cup of black coffee anchoring the entire breakfast experience. It’s become the spine of my life’s book that holds these elements of young and old, bland and sweet, all together for whatever counts as the remainder of my years.

And it is very much indeed a great time to be alive. As I write this now I reflect upon the countless acts of forethought and follow-through that tell me that I am loved by so many people.  My mother who, many months back, got my little sister to sign a birthday card before she shipped off to boot camp and would be out of card-signing range. Friends in the south of France who put together a glorious and (truthfully) unexpected birthday fête that captured many loves ranging from Guinness cake to Italian coffee.  My college friends making the mad round trip journey from Dublin last night so they could treat me to a proper birthday meal. My brother who is still asleep back in the hotel and still, after 20+ years, continues to be game for adventures both back in America and abroad.

My second coffee is now drunk and the café is picking up in decibel level as I realize that no matter the day, minute or age marker, life will continue to click on.  If I don’t move pretty soon and feed the parking meter then we’ll risk getting a ticket on my birthday. John and I are headed south today and will be reunited with more friends and familiar scenery that we both have come to love so much.

I have no clue what the next forty years will bring, never mind the next forty minutes. But today feels just right. I’ll take with me the blend of quiet and dissipating daybreak and go dump my kid brother out of his bed. We’ve got more than a few miles to go on this day, and I more than excited to get a move on and see what’s ahead.