Love. Four little letters give this word some heavy meaning. It has moved poets and authors to pen, inspired artists to create masterpieces, and influenced even the most collected of us to acts of unimaginable madness.
As Valentine’s Day draws nearer, I’ve found myself thinking about what love means. I was predisposed, as children are, to love those around me. My relationships with family and friends, no matter how near or far away, became the ultimate gift to cherish and maintain.
My relationship with myself is equally important. I have learned over the years that without respect and love for myself, it is difficult to share affection for anyone else. There are days, hours, even minutes when my relationship with myself changes. I’ve shared countless smiles as well as sighs of exasperation with my reflection.
A few years back, a friend of mine posted a Facebook status on Valentine’s Day, proclaiming it “Happy Single’s Awareness Day.” At the time, I agreed with her statement. Boxes of chocolates and pink silhouettes of Cupid with his arrow poised for his next target infuriated me. I considered it a total lack of consideration for singletons.
But now, things are different. I don’t see Valentine’s Day as a personal threat to my being single, or lacking the ability to love. Rather, it is just another day that I am reminded of the many ways I experience love on a daily basis. In the rising of the sun on my way to work, when a great song comes on the radio, through phone calls with my family and friends back in Connecticut, or catching glimpses of myself in the mirror, holding a little boy learning to walk. He smiles at his refection, and then at me.
I was shot by Cupid’s arrow long ago. I’ve got the love.