Valentine’s Day
To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
(William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5)
I am a hopeless romantic. For the first year of dating my wife, I wrote her a poem a day for almost 18 months. When I ran out of amorous inspiration or just got too busy or whatever happened the day I didn’t write her a poem, I compiled the hundreds of poems I had written and printed them out to one day be presented to her if/when I proposed to her. Well, I did propose to her in Central Park, in a small corridor of trees and benches affectionately known as Poet’s Walk (the last time I saw this location was in the opening scene of the “The Happening”, the dreadful last M. Night Shyamalan film). So, that evening, by a roaring fireplace in a quaint restaurant in the West Village, I handed my fiancé her tome of poetry written over the first year or so of our courtship. It was impressive, I have to say. Not because I impressed with myself (well, maybe a little), but because that bound collection of words cost me nothing. It cost me time and creative forethought, and when you have a subject of inspiration such as the one you love, it’s not really a cost as much as it is a gain.
Being married only 5 years (in Hollywood, that is like dog years), I am no expert on love. But, I do know a few things. On one hand, love requires everything. Your time, energy, focus and ability to fight our biggest epidemic – selfishness. For my wife, one way for me to show love is to not crack my knuckles. It drives her crazy. I still do it anyway, because, I forget and I don’t think about doing it when I’m doing it because it is habitually impulsive. In many ways, for love to be love, the demands are so high that it almost seems impossible to live up to them. However, and this is the wonderful dichotomy, love doesn’t cost much. And, I mean monetarily.
Did you know that an estimated one billion Valentine’s Day cards are sent worldwide every year? Next to Christmas, it is the largest “holiday” or sending cards. Imagine that each one of those billion cards had a $.42 stamp. That is $420 million dollars on postage alone. Imagine each card cost $2.99 (some are five dollars more if they sing when opened), but for the sake of simplicity, that is $126 billion on greeting cards. This doesn’t count the flowers and chocolates and anything/everything else that is given Is this possible? Is this right? Because I see an economic stimulus package hidden amongst the reds and pinks of Valentine greetings.
Maybe Cupid works for the Treasury Department.
I am not condemning spending money on your beloved on this “holiday”. I am suggesting taking a closer look at what is motivating us in our hearts. Because, if we are reserving February 14th to be the one day out 365 that we celebrate love, then something is wrong. Every day should be Valentine’s Day. Every day should hold a small celebration for the love we give and receive, share and grow. I am also suggesting that we take a look at the sheer commercialization of this holiday, or any holiday for that matter. We are so “green conscience” these days. We don’t want to waste or abuse our resources, but just think about the flowers and paper used alone for this one holiday. Again, I am not placing judgment as much as I am trying to open my own eyes to the realities of how much we consume, spend and invest in to “show love”. Showing true love doesn’t come disguised in heart shaped boxes or flowers already on their way to a slow, withering death. Daily, we have an opportunity to show love in so many ways, that if we just took a break for one year, the millions and millions of dollars we spend could be put toward those who don’t know love, those who don’t have affection, those who have nothing… the marketplace does not have the corner on love.
As I reflect on this day and as I write this stream of consciousness, I am humbled by how fortunate I am to have a wife who loves me. And, despite my shortcomings, knuckle cracking and impossible perfectionism, she still loves me. That is something money cannot buy. There is no price tag on true love.
And, yet, I remain hypocritical, because as I write this, I stare at a big, red bag filled with cookies, a book on poetry, some clothes and the first poem I’ve written my wife in several years. She is my Valentine, but not just today.