A Cold is Borne Upon the Mist

A cold is borne upon the mist,
my fingers, nose, and lips it kissed.
Each drop reflects a tiny moon, too small
for me to see, yet collectively,
they all take on a moonish hue.

The airborne dew begins to dance
as I intrude without a glance.
A lamp, diffused and haloed, glows
to guide the errant drops reposed
back to their partners.

My Funny Valentine

I think Valentine's Day is one of the greatest holidays of the year. In fact, it's almost worthy of Federal Holiday status: if you have a love, you should get the day off to spend with him or her; if you don't have a love, you should get to spend the day looking for one. I think "My Funny Valentine" is one of the best songs ever written, and I even had a prestige license plate for years displaying my family's nickname for me when I was growing up: Lovie.

I remember the mystical Valentine's Day box from when I was a child. I think I made my first one in the first grade. After going through the ritual of pleading with my mother to give me her best shoe box, I spent what seemed like hours crafting it, making it artistic and enticing, gluing my tokens of hope for acceptance to the outside of the box, and carefully cutting a hole in the top to accommodate any size Valentine to ensure none would be missed.

I didn't get a single one. Instead, the recipients of those sentiments were the quintessential beauties, with big blue eyes and long blonde hair; the girls with ribbons, who wouldn't go home and sob over their mystical Valentine's Day box, because they had all the damn Valentines! Even at that age, I found this to be confusing, as I knew I had given every student in the class a Valentine and thought they would do the same.

The next time we had to make a box (I say "had to" because it wasn't really presented as a choice by the teacher) I approached the task with a new attitude: I would try finding my joy in giving Valentines, not receiving them, and maybe save a few hurt feelings. That year, when I took my empty box home, I didn't cry. I instead felt happy that I didn't have a single undistributed Valentine.

It wasn't until I became an adult that I realized, since I was a tomboy as a young girl, that my androgyny probably made the little boys a touch uncomfortable; they certainly couldn't give one of their own a Valentine, and counter the gender training their parents had so carefully nurtured. Girls had the freedom of giving Valentines to anybody, and still do.

Traditionally, I have given little Valentines (a la first grade) to classmates, friends, and co-workers every year save one or two. When I was around age 21, I gave them to everyone at the small law firm where I was employed. In fact, I'll bet T even got one or two during the time we worked together.

One of the senior partners, who had a reputation for being particularly gruff and who happened to be T's boss at the time, was not excluded from the barrage of warm fuzzies. Ten minutes after he found it on his desk, he stormed down the hall towards me, long strides, head down, with my Valentine clutched in his right hand. I steeled myself and silently promised that I wouldn't retreat under my desk should he raise his voice. He waved the Valentine in the air, his cheeks flushing, and demanded to know what it was. I calmly explained it was a Valentine, for him. I said nothing more. He paused, lowered his arm, and slowly looked down at the Valentine, which probably depicted a friendship sentiment with a fuzzy animal on it (if still visible beneath his fingertip impressions). He looked at me again with a softened gaze, and said, "Miss M, no one has ever given me a Valentine before. Thank you." He then spun on his heels and walked back to his office. We never mentioned it again, but I saw the Valentine on his desk some time afterwards, and was secretly tickled that he kept it. I always enjoyed working with him after that.

When I was around 24, I made a pact with a female friend that if we were ever unattached on Valentine's Day, we'd send each other a small floral arrangement, "anonymously." We did have an opportunity to do that one year, and it drove our co-workers crazy, trying to find out who sent us flowers. There is a certain fascination created by the romance, albeit contrived in this instance, associated with anonymous gifts.

Some of the best things about Valentine's Day are the cards. They can be perfectly (and acceptably) naughty. They can be flirty, playful, silly, or straightforward. They can communicate for people who are shy, or for anyone who can't find the perfect words to express their feelings. They can reinforce a declaration or a commitment. They are powerful creations, indeed.

Searching for that perfect card? Valentine's cards are designed to be universal sentiments; that's why a talented (but often anonymous) individual at the greeting card company can write a sentiment that you think is absolutely perfect for you and will seem heart-felt when you share it. Here's a simple guideline that I follow: if I feel compelled to put back too many Valentine's Day cards because something in them doesn't apply to my valentine, I recognize that I might possibly be with the wrong valentine. (Incidentally, I have found the same guidelines apply to card selections pertaining to anniversaries.)

Candy? Pffft. Flowers? Eh. Cards? Always my preference, because I know the giver took at least a few minutes and gave some thought to pick a card out for me. I like that.

Maybe I like Valentine's Day so much because I don't view it as a celebration of the love I get from others, I view it as a celebration of the love I have to give. I mentioned to a young friend the other day that the love we have within us is not contingent upon its being returned. Rather, it is a gift that can bring us joy by being given unconditionally.

Here's to my fellow year-round valentines, all over the world.

Filling the Void

In my mother's backyard, there is a tall wooden post, upon which sits a bat house. For anyone not familiar with this particular habitat, a bat house is similar to a butterfly house or a bird house (for which I hold a particular affinity, anyway). Many years ago, my future ex-husband and I installed this residence with the hope of attracting some of the local flying fauna to our yard so that we could observe them. Our usual backyard Nature Channel includes chipmunks, lighting bugs in the fall, rambunctious squirrels, and a variety of birds, including a lone red-tailed hawk that flies through whenever the mood strikes him (e.g., whenever we have a surplus of the aforementioned chipmunks).

During the installation of the bat house, FEH decided to set the post in quick dry cement. He dug a large hole in the yard, mixed the cement, and set the four by four post. While the cement was drying, he took the opportunity to gather several small twigs from the yard and place them in such a fashion as to communicate a message to me and the world.



The post was actually never tall enough to entice the bats to roost, but it was a good effort. The bat house has finally fallen apart from years of disuse and abuse from the weather. I am now faced with the daunting task of removing the dilapidated house, the post, and the block of concrete (which I will joyously send to the local landfill, along with its sentiment). After that exercise, however, I will be faced with one more dilemma: how to fill the hole.

There is no loose dirt in the backyard. Of course, in my part of Georgia, it's extraordinarily difficult to find accessible loose dirt anywhere unless it's been hauled in from another location. No, our terra is primarily red mud based, quite fixed in its location, and permeated with small rocks.

If I use peat, there will be a large, soft, dark spot in the yard. If I use mulch, I will run the risk of our resident chipmunks carrying it off for nesting purposes, which they are prone to do; termites, ants, and other creepy-crawlies are also a concern.

I could dig a hole further back in the yard and use that mud to fill the first, more visible hole. But then all I've done is moved the hole, which doesn't make a lot of sense. Intuition tells me that I must fill in the hole or I will doom myself to step into it blindly one day and break an ankle.

I think what I will do is transplant a cutting from one of mother's hydrangeas and plant it in the hole in some good potting soil. It will take a few years to grow, but they are very hardy and will double in size each year thereafter. That way, I can turn the scarred earth into something beautiful.

I find this task to have many parallels with my current situation. We all have a void that we are trying to fill; some voids are just larger than others. Some people fill theirs with meaningless and rapidly deteriorating relationships (which must always be replenished); others fill theirs with sustainable friendships and enduring love. Some fill them with families, careers, hobbies, volunteerism, or social engagements. Some even go so far as to tell so many lies that it appears to others there isn't a void there at all – but the moment someone else steps into the camouflage, they fall into the hole and become trapped in deceit. I think this void is the most dangerous, because it consumes and consumes and can never be filled, but the imprisoned party never realizes it before a substantial investment, either emotional or pecuniary, is made.

We fill our voids not only because they can pose a danger to ourselves and others, but because they are generally indicative of a certain incompleteness. We use whatever materials we are comfortable with, or materials that are readily accessible; however, our selection may not always be the best alternative. Still, it's our choice how we fill them. I think I prefer to fill mine with hydrangeas.

As I begin to strategize the demolition of the bat house, I am learning that though nothing is permanent, everything has the capacity to leave a void, a scar, of some kind. I find myself wondering which is more meaningful . . . the scar itself, how it was earned, or how we wear it for the world.