I think I've always taken my Valentine's day with a shot of cynicism; brushing off its dictated sentimentality with the notion that it's a contrived holiday, fabricated by greeting card companies in cahoots with associated florists.
Somehow when lilacs and chocolates are pressed on us by a date on the calendar it seems less than sincere; an obligatory action, like a dental appointment, or my turn in the carpool. And the symbol: a heart, is only a recent friend of mine, since children and their fondness of drawing and cutting them of pink and red.
Romance (to me) is a well-directed albeit mysterious pause. The flirtation of possibility. A silent somewhat distant presence. Question upon question. A void filled, if for a time, to be opened all the wider for the next longing hour, replaced with similarity mixed with a refreshing newness over and over again. Romance says: "I see you," and has one wondering if, in fact, it is true.
Love is more near than romance. And perhaps because of its proximity we can use a reminder of that distant romantic appreciation. Just how do you spark romance that was once merely implied after it is spoken and freely given? Commerically available options seem bleak.
Lately I've been feeling like finding something within myself is the only way. Making room in my own mind will in its own way manifest itself. In being "my own valentine," so to speak, my imagination and my situations will broaden.
You can see that the foil wrapper really spoke to me this afternoon. Be your own valentine. Be good to yourself.
Here's hoping you have a sweet weekend.
