twenty-seven

I think I may have led a few people astray by leading them to believe that we are strictly a volunteer organization. The truth is, everyone who signs on articles on the ship is, in effect, signing a contract that states we will be paid a salary of two dollars. Per year. Payable if and only if you happen to be on board on your birthday and in the form of a gift certificate to the Ship Shop.

Today marked the third year in a row that I've been paid this enormously large salary, and I promptly spent half of my year's earnings on a extra large mug of chai tea.

Wandering onto the ward at seven, I was greeted by a sign on the door and a not-so-hushed chorus of Happy Birthday in seven separate languages. A few minutes later, one of the translators stuck his head around the door, obviously fake panic in his eyes. Afi! We need you! There is an emergency! When I made it into the hall, there was a whole pile of them, laughing at their clever deception while Mark/Eric (he goes by either name, depending on his mood) held up his camera. The emergency is that we need a birthday picture, and so we all piled together to capture the moment.

Being in this community on your birthday is lovely. You spend the day receiving hugs and greetings from all around the world. When you show your face in the dining room, someone rings the big ship's bell and the whole place sings to you. There are cookies outside your door, left for you along with your yearly wages by the Hospitality department. And, in an unspoken tradition, one of your friends has inevitably stayed up until they were sure you were asleep and then decorated the wall outside your cabin so you're greeted by balloons and other pretty things in the morning. (It doesn't matter that you go to sleep knowing full well that this will be the case in the morning; it still makes you feel like a rock star.)

This year in particular, I just feel happy. That may have something to do with the scrub top my friend Jen gave me, the one she loved so much she was planning on taking home, and the one I've secretly been coveting since I first saw her wear it. I probably won't take it off until after she leaves on Saturday, just in case she changes her mind.

But more than anything, I'm just in a good place. I'm twenty-seven, and I couldn't be more content with my life, a life that is, by all accounts, something of a failure. I don't own a car, and I don't even have a license to drive here. I've never rented my own apartment or owned my own home. Everything I own fits into one narrow closet and a couple of drawers underneath my bed. I make two dollars a year.

I am by no measure a wise woman, but I feel like I'm beginning to understand a deeper truth.

A truth that tells me that life marked by the rhythm of drums and sunsets behind palm trees is a good life. That having is not as important as giving. That beauty is our inheritance, no matter how we look. That if we can learn to love, deeply and without reservation, everything else will fall into place.

This is why I'm so excited to be looking forward to many more birthdays on this ship. Because I am, more than ever, convinced that I love best here.