My birthday last October was a significant one, though thirty-five might not receive the kind of acclaim reserved for other birthday milestones. It's no sweet sixteen, doesn't hold the keys to driving or drinking, can't compete with the fun of a dirty thirty, the presumable aches and pains and jests of arriving "over the hill," or the start of the golden years.

But for me, thirty-five was quietly anticipated. Perhaps I looked forward to this age more than any other. 

There was no party. No grand celebration. I simply had a slow morning alone. After, I went for a hike with friends. It was, by most measures, an ordinary day. Yet, the day felt sacred, marked by a tradition that had become deeply personal to me over the past decade.

In October of 2014, I received a birthday card in the mail. It was from my close friend, Ashok Willmott. As I peeled opened the envelope and began to read, it became clear he had handwritten every word to "Poem on His Birthday," penned by Dylan Thomas on his own thirty-fifth birthday, on October 27th, 1949.

It was a meaningful gift, and my first time ever reading the poem, which immediately resonated. And so began a tradition, that on every birthday thereafter, I would pull up the poem and read it aloud to myself, line by line, and simply sit with its haunting and hopeful imagery.

Thomas’ poem wrestles with feelings of loss and the fear of impending death, his experience of time slipping away, and moves between intense scenes of nature—seas, birds, and landscape of Wales, where he was from.

I think one of the strengths of Thomas’ poem is his dance around life’s complexity and refrain from offering easy conclusions, offering a mixture of celebration and lament. Life is beautiful. Life is hard. And there is much to take in, both in observing self and experiencing the world around.

Thomas also frames himself as on a winding journey toward light, understanding darkness along the way is inevitable, yet a rich reservoir.

Only four years later, Dylan Thomas would die at the bright, midlife age of thirty-nine. He apparently passed from alcohol poisoning, embodying the kind of dramatic intensity prevalent throughout his poetry, a shock to the literary world in 1953.

Yet, I can’t help but believe he’d already experienced redemption, even transcendence, signified in the harrowing, gorgeous reflection he wrote at the end of "Poem on His Birthday." There, he returns to the sea—a recurring symbol in his writings that represents both eternity and union with Ultimate Reality.

Thomas had a gift for paying attention to what was unfolding within and around him, to notice how the ordinary was—upon closer examination—extraordinary, across life and death. Reading his poem at thirty-five, I found myself swimming in similar currents of existentialism. The past two years were the hardest of my life, marked by the sharp edge of loss and pressing weight of time. But they were also the years I was reborn. At the age of thirty-three, I had to die to come alive. Through a crucible of pain, I become who I am.

When I was only nineteen years old, I had a strange sense that I would not live to the age of forty—another reason I felt drawn to Thomas' works. This was likely informed by my Seventh-Day Adventist upbringing that taught we are living through the “end times.” Perhaps I will live to a good old age. None of us can know in advance. But as I stood at this milestone birthday reading Thomas’ words, I felt no fear of the unknown. Instead, I felt connected to life’s fragility and its fierce, fleeting beauty.

After I finished reading, I felt inspired to research the broader significance of this age in relation to my birthdate—October 12, 1989—without any idea what I might find.

Turns out, across some cultures, thirty-five represents a turning point, a time of spiritual awakening or renewal. In Kabbalah, thirty-five is considered a midpoint of life, where deeper insight into one’s tikkun—spiritual repair or mission—emerges. In Sufism, it is a threshold for wisdom, where one sees beyond the material world to a fuller understanding of existence. From an astrological perspective, my birthdate falls close to the autumn equinox, a time of equal balance between day and night, to turn inward and prepare for the darker, quieter months ahead.

Findings from my birth day—the twelfth—intrigued me, too. In the Tarot, the twelfth card is The Hanged Man, which symbolizes a period of pause, reflection, and, finally, transformation. It suggests a turning point where new insights are gained after letting go through surrender to what is. The number twelve has deep significance across cultures and time, as you're likely familiar with. There are twelve signs in the Zodiac, twelve months in the calendar, twelve apostles in Christianity, and twelve tribes of Israel in Judaism. In ancient Sumerian culture, twelve indicated cosmic order and the completion of a cycle.

I also explored my birth year, which is the Year of the Snake in the Chinese zodiac, specifically an Earth Snake. Snakes are associated with regeneration, depth, and mystery in Chinese astrology. The Earth element adds practicality and calm to the natural introspection of the Snake. Truthfully, snakes have always frightened me, more than any other creature. In my Christian upbringing, I learned to associate them with danger, with deception, with the Devil.

One day, when I was around the age of six, I was dropped off at my babysitter's house and went to play with her oldest son, who was a teenager. He and his buddy took me into the woods, and there, snickering, flipped over a large rock. A pit of what seemed like a dozen snakes slithered out, hissing loudly at us. The older boys sprinted away. I panicked, stumbling backward in terror only a few feet from the snakes. Then gathered my footing and ran away, trying to catch up to the older boys. I could hear them laughing in the distance. In that moment, I felt inferior, abandoned, and afraid to die a premature death.

When I first read that my birth year was associated with snakes, I couldn't help but recoil. Then, gradually, I wondered, if it might be worthwhile to befriend the snake, and so my oldest fear.

I momentarily let go of the thought, and continued exploring the significance of 1989. I learned that year was pivotal globally. The fall of the Berlin Wall marked the end of barriers, both literal and metaphorical, and signaled a major shift in global consciousness.

Lastly, I asked, "What is in a name?" So, I sought out the roots of my own. Jordan has Hebrew origins and is associated with the Jordan River. It means "to flow down" or "descend." Soliday comes from the Swiss German surname Salathe, most likely a variation of the Arabic name, Saladin. Which means, "the righteousness of faith." So, coupling the two, I interpret my name to mean: "The righteousness of faith flowing down like a river." (Later, I would research my middle name, Ryan. It comes from the Old Irish name Rían, which is believed to be derived from the Gaelic words righ and an. They are translated to mean "little king.")

As I concluded my contemplation on the morning of my birthday, I noticed a gentle wave of aliveness wash over my heart. It felt deeply tender to wade in the stream of this quiet moment with self. I am an ordinary man, but I am here. I mean something. Dylan Thomas meant something. So do you. So does everyone. It is ordinary for a human to have fingerprints, yet each is unique.

In case you don't believe in the magic of paying attention—the way the monotonous in your life might reveal more than at first glance—allow me to finish with this. After my contemplation on my birthday morning, I set out with friends to hike alongside Devil's Backbone in Loveland, Colorado. We looked to our left and saw rocks that bent into wave-like shapes and then eroded away unevenly, leaving a spine of harder rock sticking out almost vertically from the ground. The spine stretched into the distance for what seemed like a mile. Then, suddenly, up ahead, we heard a shriek. Came to a halt. Someone else on the trail had staggered off to the side. Cautioned that we walk slowly. Carefully, we stepped closer to what had incited their panic. And to my amazement, there on the trail, I laid my eyes on an old enemy, and a new friend.

"Hello, snake."