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Energy for Life: February’s Promise—For True Love What do most of us think about when February is mentioned? Valentines Day, of course—and True Love, along with the prerequisite Fanny Farmer candies, red roses, and paper valentines. I still remember my first Valentine’s card. I was six years old and in first grade in Huntsville, Alabama. I was the only girl at a quad desk and relished the attention of three boys, who competed for my attention. Each sought the title of “boyfriend” (which I suppose would make me a “girlfriend”) upon growing up. Dan promised to buy me a big house and twelve dogs. Walter said he’d fly me around outer space in a homemade airplane. And Jose didn’t make any promises; usually he just stared at me (a sign of True Love between genders, if there’s any). But he was the one who spent the better part of an evening cutting, gluing, and creating a Valentine’s Day card for me. Nestled between reams of red construction paper, globs of Elmer’s glue, and pink lace, were four immortal words: “Four me tru luv.” We all desire True Love, and there’s something about the Hallmark experience of Valentine’s Day that tugs our deepest dreams out of their slumbers. They parade before us; these stock images of fantasies come to life. What would our “True Love” look like? Treat us like? What would True Love be like? Nearly always, the idea of a True Love is romantic in nature. If we’re in relationship, our True Love will probably have attributes exactly opposite those we’re experiencing. If our woman is blue suits and glasses, we’ll conjure up sequins and red stilettos. If our man is Johnny Depp deep and mysterious, we might “George Clooney-ize” him. If not in a serious relationship, we have a little more freedom to establish a more complete ideal. We will mix and match. A blue suit with sequins; a mysterious style and infinite smile. Hmmm. Well, it’s a start. Any way we cut it, there’s a reason that most of our ideas about True Love lie in the dark recesses of our hearts—they aren’t real. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have power. I bet that most peoples’ experience of Valentine’s Day is anything but intimate, exuberant, or fulfilling. No matter when it’s eaten, a Fannie Farmer (or even Godiva) chocolate goes right to the hips. Someone—you, the date, or one of the kids—is sure to come down with a vile cold the evening of the Valentine’s date. If you’re single, there’s always at least a mile line at the newest chick flick or “in” bar (after all, you’re not the only one hanging out with the “forever single friends.”) And even roses, delivered with no seeming downside, are nothing but a problem. After you wait for days for the three-minute blooming, you’re left stuffing them in the plastic bag, after which—several band-aids later—you find they’ve poked so many holes in the bag that you leave a smelly trail of waste on your way to the garbage can. Real life always muddles our fantasies. I’ve been guilty of the same imaginative (delusion?) thinking most of my adult life. (Okay, it started when I was about eight playing “house”, continued into high school and the eternal waiting for a smile from the football jock, and accompanied me all the way up to divorce.) Then within a few weeks of each other, two brilliant and wise people taught me the truth about True Love. The first was one of my best friends, a tall, beautiful woman who has never had a problem getting a Valentine’s Day date. When talking about love and men…men and love…and men minus the love…she told me that, even though she was single and childless, she had finally stopped desiring the “perfect” mate—and was even okay with not having children, God-willing. She had figured out that she already had “True Love” in her life, in the guise of her mother, grandmother, and siblings, and all the other people she spent tens of hours caring for per week. As she said, “Whose to say what form love appears in your life, and which form is ‘more perfect’ than another form?” The second instructor was my youngest son, Gabe. I had just gotten a “pop-up” for E-Harmony, a computerized dating service, on my computer. Gabe saw it and poked me. “Why is that there, mommy?” He asked. “Oh, it’s just an ad for E-Harmony,” I said, adding the obvious question. “Why? Do you even know what it is?” “Yup.” He answered. “It’s where they try and marry people to each other,” he added, “A man talks about it on TV on that station for old people all the time.” “What would you think if mommy tried it?” I asked, curious. Gabe paused. “Well,” he drawled, slowly. “We have this really nice kid and this really nice mom and this really nice brother and this really nice house and really nice dogs and nice turtles (sic, the lack of the “really” in this category), and even a guinea pig.” He stopped, perhaps not sure whether he’s made his point or not. (After all, I fall in the “old people category.”) “And?” I prompted. “And I don’t know why you would want to ruin it when there’s already enough love.” Gabe’s world was full of love. Is love from a male dog named Honey who eats all your extra food and tugs the blind dog, Coco, around by the ears, any less important, vital, or—loving—than love from some other source? Now, I’d take a date with George Burns, James Marsden, or Edward Norton any day—and would love to have a Valentine’s Day that incorporates an actual dinner with a live male that ISN’T a 20-year old son requiring financial assistance or a nine-year-old whose idea of celebration is watching reruns of “Transformers” three times while chewing only-cheese pizza. Still. At some level, aren’t I in the perfect life? Aren’t you? True Love is genuine love. It is love that remains, no matter who is happy or sad, sick or well, or big or little. Something true “conforms with fact.” Fantasies, as lovely as they are in our minds, aren’t so attractive in everyday life. We’d be spared a lot of pain if we could only look beneath the surface and see the love that already exists. Is it enduring? Is it concrete? Is it “real?” February, it seems to me, is the perfect time to see the perfection of the love we have—and give. (And of course, once in a while it’s fine to ponder “substitutes,” rather than the “real thing.” Who hasn’t used coffee creamer instead of creamer, when that’s all there is? The trick is knowing the difference.) For alas, we’ve all learned that not everyone who signs a Valentine’s Day card is there for the long haul. Take poor Jose. To my embarrassment, I have to admit that I didn’t treat him very well. The next day, I traded him for my friend Louise’s boyfriend, Joe. She liked the Valentine’s Day card Jose had given me, and he promised to make one for her, in exchange for a quarter. When we told Joe that we traded, he said, “Cool.” So much for my first True Love.
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