Valentine's Gifts from Left Field

This Valentine’s Day three men surprised me with expressions of their love.

First, the dear son bought me a pair of earrings, though he confessed they had been a “just because” purchase. (He’s good at expressing his feelings; he’s just not too keen on making sure they adhere to a calendar.)

Then, at the end of a long, hard Feb. 13, I was greeted by a priority package tucked behind my screen door. It contained two hand-carved hearts—one of redwood, the other of heartwood—fashioned for me by my friend Roger, a reclusive “desert rat” whom I met almost 17 years ago while he was living in a ghost town south of Death Valley. Roger and I have stayed in touch all these years through snail mail and occasional surprise packages such as this. In his enclosed letter, Roger wrote that he had made two hearts because I am a “doubly special lady.”

And then, yesterday evening, on Valentine’s Day itself, friend and colleague Chris invited me out for coffee. There he surprised me with a metallic-red gift bag with bright red ribbons. “Look inside,” he cajoled. “I’m not sure I can get past the bag,” I replied, captivated by its show-stopping intensity.

Inside were ranch-dip-and-baby-carrot and peanut-butter-and-celery packages from Trader Joe’s. Chris knows my health hurdles preclude chocolate consumption, so he bought me something healthful instead. What a cutie!

Besides being my ally and personal comedian within a generally Machiavellian and humorless workplace, Chris is my good buddy. He’s a fun guy, and, God bless him, he’s real! He got a few sustained hugs for thinking of me on what has often been a challenging day.

So there we have it—love from left field. And what makes this all the more beautiful is that, unlike so many years before, when I was full of listlessness and lamentation due to my “lack” of love, this year I was nearly oblivious to all the fuss. I was at peace with my solitary existence, though, of course, I would jump at the chance of romance. But since it’s not here, I haven’t been wailing over it.

Thanks, guys, for fortifying the smile on my face. I wish you, me and everyone else a bunch of all kinds of love to make it through the rest of the year.

A Different Kind of Valentine's Day

For the past, um, let’s say 26 years, Valentine’s Day has been kind of rough. Back then, I was a freshly married woman whose husband did the freshly-married-husbandly thing of showering me with cards, roses and a romantic dinner. In short, the classic—or may I say, cliché—Valentine’s Day expression of love, affection and mass marketing.

That, unfortunately, was the last time a man with whom I was romantically involved paid any attention to Feb. 14. Sure, there was the year when my friend Rob slipped a chummy valentine under my door to cheer me up. And the year when my son, then only 10 or 11, bought the red rose that he knew my then-boyfriend would not. These were sweet gestures and much appreciated, but let’s face it: Valentine’s Day is for lovers, not friends and family.

And so each year around this time, I have gone into a funk, wondering why love—or even a cheap thrill—is so elusive. Intellectual truisms that VD is just a means for card companies and florist shops to make money have proved unsatisfying. So what! I don’t mind them cashing in if only I could hit the jackpot too.

Things are different this year, I’m happy to report. I am not feeling the dread and hopelessness that I have before during the first couple weeks of February. It’s not that I’ve “given up” or that I no longer desire a relationship. It’s just that the desperation has departed.

I still hold my pillow at night as if it were the man I would love and the man who would also love me. When I embrace my “man pillow,” I get a true surge of happiness—the pillow feels good, the covers are cozy about my body, and I’m smiling widely, light with something I know not what. There’s no longer the tears that follow from thinking that this is the closest I’ve gotten in years to a relationship.

VD is a week away, but I don’t see my mood altering as the day draws nigh. Just look at how cute I am in this picture I took just moments ago. Look at the glow in those eyes, the brightness in the air about me. If some fantastic guy can’t see the beauty here, well, I guess I’ll just have to keep beaming until someone does. Until then, I’ll let my love shine out to the world—and keep hugging that huggable man pillow.

Feeling Good

So often lately I catch myself smiling, not at any particular person or thing, but just at all that is. Or I sense that my eyes are wide open and bright, that I’m glowing, the spark of life shining out, vibrancy giving me a lightness in my step.

Some might think I’m in love. After all, it’s damn near Valentine’s Day.

And, yes, I am in love…though no one’s in love with me. I write that, not in the lovelorn way I uttered those words in 2003, when I was giddy and squishy after a man had kissed me following 15 years of waiting for him to realize I was a woman. I had asked my class to excuse my behavior and the little mistakes I was making on the board. “I’m in love, you see,” I told my students, and they giggled, pleased for me. Later, I confided in one of them, “Yes, I said I’m in love, but that doesn’t mean anyone is in love with me.” After several days, the kisser hadn’t called or e-mailed, much less sent roses. After a little bit more of this, I fell out of love too.

But what I’m currently feeling isn’t like this. It’s not like this at all. The emphasis is not on the absence of love coming my way, but that the love is non-specific, non-personal. No one loves me. Rather, all loves me. Love is coming at me from all directions.

If an outsider would take inventory of my life, he might say there’s no reason to be feeling so good.
• My health has been severely challenged lately.
• My support system is limited.
• My current job pays poorly, is often meaningless, doesn’t make use of my talents and intelligence, demands long hours, is conducted under shabby working conditions, and is plagued by passionless students, unsupportive co-workers and a back-stabbing department chair.
• My apartment is in a marginal part of town with neighbors who enjoy beeping their horns at all hours of the night.
• I have no social life beyond a coffee every month or two with a friend.

And yet when I am alone in my apartment or reading a book in a coffeehouse or walking down the street or getting my groceries, I feel good. I am ever-delighted by the beauty and peacefulness of ordinary objects and the empty air between them.

Quite often I am in my kitchen, preparing a meal or washing dishes, when I look into the adjoining living room at the desk chair in front of the computer. The chair becomes a boundary of sorts, but my vision is focused on the 20 feet or so between the chair and me. The longer I gaze at the air, the more I feel an animation of the space, or of space itself, the ground that allows things to be. I am in the presence of presence, the great I Am. I am happily drowning in the present moment.

Of course, when I am interacting with humanity, it is more difficult to maintain this presence. I’m still working on that. But in these pure moments of no-thought, love streams in.

And sometimes I am able to bring that peace into challenging situations with other humans. Sometimes. Like tonight when I received an e-mail from a friend who has moved from So Cal to pursue a new life in the idyllic Northwest. She had misinterpreted something I’d written, believing that I was judging her when I was truly expressing concern, hoping she was doing OK. Her e-mail calling me on this perceived judgment was surprising, but not unsettling, as it surely would have been a year ago or even six months ago.

I’m feeling good, but I couldn’t explain it to someone who calculates happiness by the number of one’s friends, the size of one’s paycheck, the existence of a significant other or the results of lab tests. When I’m completely in this moment, there’s no room for all of that, only room enough for what’s right here in front of me. And that includes the empty air.