Yesterday, I told a friend, “Hey! Don’t forget to get the wife a bouquet of flowers “
His response: “I’ll wait until the 15th to catch a good sale!” Hilarious as that sounded initially, I thought about it and questions about the nature of love–what it is, how it changes, the types of love, the beginning and end of love, the endurance of love, the quality of love, the lack of love–swirled within.
Indeed, Valentines Day is a commercial bonanza built on great expectations. It can symbolize one’s love, but the truth is really in the days before & after. Buying flowers and whispering sweet nothings are best appreciated when least expected. Love is an action, its’ roots running deep, far removed from the derived, often confusing feelings that can blind.
Pablo Neruda sums up this beautiful conundrum we call “love”:
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.