Love, glorious, multifaceted love

A day to celebrate the loves of our lives: it's...nice.

Consider my attitude Bah-Humbuggish if you wish, but even the most ardent celebrators of this holiday know that what we do on one day of the year is nothing compared to how we listen, serve, care for our loved ones in non-red-non-chocolate-non-roses ways the rest of the time.

In writing circles, we are reminded often to write what we love. And it's indeed true. If we didn't love what we did, many of us would have given up a long time ago.

But what are we talking about, this love of writing? Do we look forward every day to spending time with our words, our stories? Do we daydream of it? Do we get the heart palpitations and the delicious anticipation? Does tenderness fill our hearts?

Not often. Not for me anyway.

Sometimes I dread writing. Sometimes I get so uncomfortable I can't be still. I grumble. I cry. I long to do something else.

But I write. There is something deep and essential within me that can be accessed only when I write.

Not exactly romantic, reducing love to necessity.

But maybe romance isn't everything when it comes to love.

I don't fling my arms around my husband when I see him after work every day. The butterflies in my stomach have grown arthritic over the last twenty some years. We don't gaze into each other's eyes over dinner and forget about the food on the table. But there is no question that what I have is love. It's strong, it is deep, it has weathered much more than the fluttering hearts of our early romance could handle.

I love writing. And there isn't a chubby winged toddler with arrows in sight.