As my friend Maggie’s birthday approached, she said she was glad her granddaughter was born on the same day. It brings them closer together than they might have otherwise been and makes the 8-year-old feel important to share something with the family matriarch.

For Maggie, the celebration of the little girl’s growth and accomplishments distracts from her own aging.

How do birthdays fit into our lives? What do they mean? Are they days to celebrate or regret? Do we face our birthdays or ignore them?

Adults tend to emphasize the landmark years, the ones divisible by five, or, more often, by 10. Think of all the 40th birthday parties you have attended.

Another friend, Jean, thinks those “big years” deserve more than a single remembrance. At the end of every five years, Jean celebrates her birthday on its anniversary for the entire year. The celebration may be small, lunch at a chichi restaurant, an overnight trip, or a slightly extravagant purchase, but it is a break in routine.

I’m currently weighing the notion of a monthly celebration because this year I celebrate 10 years in the Pioneer Valley as well as 70 years on the planet.

To me, 60 represented a new beginning. I looked forward to leaving behind a life spent largely in the suburbs to settle into a semirural area of small towns, working farms and college campuses, where bears sometimes wandered into yards.

Perhaps, age brought me closer to the land. I hoped to watch cows graze. I planned to finally keep bees. Excited about a yard three times the size of the one I left behind, I dreamed of gardens, and maybe some sort of structure, a small but well decorated shed, in which to write.

But I also looked forward to book groups, meeting new people, learning to ride and fence, and so much more. Topping my list was finally writing a novel.

However, as this birthday approached, I felt the weight of what was missing. There is a sort of wry comedy about the past 10 years. That first spring, when I tried to plant blueberry bushes, I discovered clay so heavy that the only way to wedge my shovel into the ground was to jump on it. It took two weeks to put in six plants.

I never learned to ride, never picked up an epee. There are no hives in my yard and the garden is not an annual event.

Although I found a writing group, my novel is an 80-page manuscript, tucked into a purple folder, resting in a wicker basket in the box room. I wrote several acts of a play in a stitched notebook which disappeared with the tote in which I carried it.

On the other hand, I was surprised by a new career, teaching writing. I made friends. I attend plays. I went to Tanglewood. I buy raw milk in Ashfield. I do see cows often and I do shop at farmers’ markets. As for the garden, well, this year I am trying raised beds.

But, turning 70 introduces a new element to any life: thoughts of mortality. First, there are the bookkeeping aspects of aging. Writing a will. Having a health care proxy in place.

Then, there are the housekeeping things to consider. I stumbled upon an article about adapting one’s house to an aging body. For the time being, I will ignore that sort of remodel.

Finally, there is the hope that I will live long enough to see eight grandkids into adulthood – with my faculties intact.

Which brings me back to what is a birthday? It is a time to reflect and assess. As a young woman, I felt our real task in life was to estimate the nature and size of our spark of divine fire and how we might best keep it lit. We must ask ourselves if we are we dedicated enough to keep the glow going, while being kind enough to succeed without hurting anyone else.

Then we have to create a new vision for the time remaining. We may not win the National Book Award or watch an audience rise to applaud as the curtain rings down on our play, but, we may teach the grandkids how to write or we may gift a friend with a book that makes her/his life better.

I am not suggesting we settle for the small things but that we value the small things. That we appreciate the buzzing of bees in our back yards or stop to watch the cows graze at the farm a short walk from home.

Perhaps, then, the importance of a birthday is that each year we can chart our growth in wisdom and patience and that we continue to hope.

Susan Wozniak, of Easthampton, is a retired journalist and writing professor who writes a monthly column.