Dessert Is Not My Life

I'm sure everyone has a story or two about vegetables at the dinner table. Every person on the planet has fallen victim to the eat your vegetables lecture: both as children and parents. And I believe most of us would fall into the childhood category of non-vegetable eaters. And I know all non-vegetable eaters have stories about how they excused themselves to the toilet with a mouthful of peas, slipped it to the dog, spit them out in the napkin and run to the trash, or hide them under some random piece of meat on your plate and hope your mom doesn't notice. And at this moment I'm confident the majority of us have some "no vegetables no dessert" rule: we went through it and now we put our kids through it. It's "the sins of the father passed down unto the third and fourth generations..." Seriously... is there no end to the madness?

Though I never told her, I watched my daughter pull every vegetable dodging trick in the book. Though it was somewhat irritating to see some form of covert disobedience, I also found myself quietly laughing as I remembered doing all of those same things at her age. Keeping that in the back of my mind, we sat down to dinner one night and I said, "You're going to eat your vegetables tonight, for real... no emergency runs to the bathroom, no spitting them in your napkin... yes, I know you've been doing that because I did all of the same things. So, tonight you're eating your vegetables or no dessert."

Her eyes grew big with shocked amazement, and she nodded her head in agreement. She ate everything else on her plate, but for twenty long minutes she just sat there, telling me stories, and stirring the broccoli around on her plate. By this time it was cold and tough so I prompted her to eat them and get it over with. She reluctantly stabbed one with her fork, put it to her lips, looked at me and said, "I guess I don't want dessert."
"What did you say?"
"I don't want dessert. You said no vegetables no dessert and well, I guess I just don't care about dessert. Is that okay?" She put the broccoli down and silently waited for my response.

Long ago my mother said something very wise to me: you have to choose your battles... That was one of those odd adolescent occasions with my mother where all she had to do was say it once and I never forgot. And there I was, pinned by my daughter, faced with choosing a battle. Sure, I could have forced the issue, broken her spirit, and made her tearfully gnaw on some nasty broccoli "because I said so," but I didn't.

How could I not admire, at that moment, my daughter's sense of reasoning? She knows enough about the strength of my will to see that sitting endlessly at the table was futile. But even though I felt I had made a non-negotiable offer (an offer she couldn't refuse), she basically sat there long enough to find a loop-hole in the system -- an opportunity to negotiate, an opportunity to maybe bend her will a little but, none-the-less, an opportunity to exert it. I had to respect that, so we left the table and she went to bed with no dessert.

Some time after that, she came home from a visit with her dad. We were sitting in the living room when she said, "Dad doesn't get it sometimes." I asked what she meant and she said, "He kept trying to make me eat my vegetables. He told me no dessert and I said that was fine with me, but he still made me sit there after that, he still tried to force me to eat them." I asked her if she ate them and she said, "No, I just sat there. I was the last one at the table because everyone ate their vegetables and dessert and I was just sitting there. He finally let me leave the table after a long time. And then, after all of that, he slipped me a cookie when no one else was looking anyway." Surprisingly to me, she looked exasperated by this...definitely not impressed...the cookie meant nothing.

I stayed silent until she asked me why I let her leave the table and her dad didn't. My response to her was, "Well, I said no vegetables no dessert, you said no dessert, and, given the fact that you'd probably spit them out in the toilet anyway, I saw no real problem with that option. Every parent is different, but for me, if I have to argue with you over something, I'd rather save that energy for something more important than vegetables and dessert." She smiled a little and shook her head, "See, you get it. Dessert is NOT my life."

I laughed to myself as she said that, because it was true. Never underestimate the mind of an eight-year-old, apparently some of them value their sense of freedom and self-respect more than the sweetness of sitting up straight for a treat. And for those of you who are appalled that I allow my daughter to choose whether or not to eat the vegetables, know this: more often than not she eats her vegetables because she really wants dessert...

Vintage

I am vintage. They come to me in twos and threes. They don’t drain me. Neither do they turn me… they need me. They drink, here and there, sustaining themselves, leaving just enough for me to survive. I replenish… they come again, because I am vintage. I am, according to some, an old soul, reincarnated over and over again, due to some damn thing still left to learn.

That woman over there says I am ascending. That woman, in white, over there, says I am moving and leaving this plane. But I beg to differ…

I am vintage, and they come in twos and threes. I am decadent and aged with elms and birch and knotted oaks. I am full of body and flavor and they come to me…they sap the strength from me…They come, seductively clothed in garments that speak of sorrow and loss, seeking a light to guide them--a mere source, a fountain from which they drink from time to time, but not to heal, just enough to sustain their own sorry existence with style.

This is what it means to be vintage… an aired wine, with no tinge or twang, all that any conniving connoisseur would want. I make them look good to themselves and I deceive myself into thinking that I help. But all I am is some thick liquid, confined in some green glass bottle, letting all negativity rise to the ethers, while all that is fine and good is consumed by something other.

She says that I am ascending…
Right…
I am still very much on the ground…and this is …most likely…because I… still don’t get it.

Have I Ever Told You About My Five?

One night, about a year and a half ago, my best friend from college came to visit. She's one of those friends that despite the time and distance between us we seem to remain as close as we were at the age of eighteen -- two young and naive college freshmen.

Now, at that particular time in my life, she showed up a month or so after I had dumped yet another potential mate. We were sitting in the living room, savoring some wine, catching up on the happenings of our lives when she finally asked about my love-life or, more appropriately, the lack there-of. She listened to me as I went through the story of the latest love gone sour and she listened even further as I reminisced about the pros and cons of each of the four men I had dated since my divorce. Finally she said, "Have you ever considered coming up with a specific criteria of what you're looking for in a man? If you haven't, I think you should, and if you haven't, I think we should come up with one right now." So we did, and here it is:

1. He has to be educated. Why? Because I'm educated.
Two of those four men had nothing beyond a high school diploma. I had reasoned it away believing that they had enough raw intelligence to get by. Unfortunately, the great void between my intellect and theirs became too much to bear. If we are what we eat, I had eventually become convinced that one of those two men ate rocks. He truly was a rockhead, an extremely good-looking rockhead, but a rockhead. When it reaches the point that my man throws a temper tantrum because he's jealous of the time I spend with books, well... we have a problem Houston -- a local rock eating dunderhead is trying to drag my vessel into the mud when I've been commissioned to explore the mysteries of the intellectual universe. That's simply unacceptable.

2. He must be spiritually grounded. Why? Because I am.
Being the daughter of a Baptist Minister, I cannot tell you how many times I've heard my father lecture me about the importance of being equally yoked. I never put much stock in it before, mostly because I was married to a Baptist hypocrite and it was absolute Hell. But since then I have dated a non-practicing Catholic, two agnostics, and a dunderhead who went from Mormonism (what he was raised), to Atheism (rebellion from Mormonism), to Buddhism (where he was when I met him, though I would argue his Buddhist practices were little more than lip service), to Christianity (where he was after dating me for a while, also lip service), and back to Mormonism (where he returned after I dumped him... I try hard not to feel responsible for that one).

Without giving myself any type of Protestant title, I will say that I am a believer in the God of the Bible, I am a follower of Christ. Basically what this means to any of you that might be cringing, I adhere to the following: love and care for the people around you as you would care for yourself, be faithful to your mate, always speak the truth, take care of the Earth because it's the only one God gave you, judge not lest you be judged, develop your talents and use them to the utmost of your ability because they're gifts, and finally do not destroy your mind and body with unhealthy addictions because your body is the temple of God. This, of course, is a very succinct outline of my personal convictions, but ... it is what it is.

3. Black Belt Mentality.
This is one I picked up from my own experience as a martial artist. All forms of martial arts are based on the idea of Yin and Yang, push and pull, or as William Blake would put it, "Without contraries there is no progression."

What does this mean? In practical terms, we all set goals and strive to achieve them but life has a way of throwing curve balls and monkey wrenches. The true Black Belt is a master of self-control and adaptability, he can dodge and deflect, bob and weave his way in and out of any difficult situation with the strength of all that is martial and the beauty of all that is art. In other words, your opponent isn't always a human and your practice is rarely confined to the dojo. You must approach your life with a keen sense of awareness, accept your failures and shortcomings as lessons to be learned, and accept your triumphs with humble honor. Your life isn't perfect all of the time and growth wouldn't happen if your personal trials didn't force you to do so.

4. Financial Stability.
I'm not talking wealth here because I'm not a material girl. What I'm talking about is the ability to manage money properly: successfully living within your means no matter how large or small. Unfortunately for me, I have yet to date a man with "money" so I have no idea what that's like, but I do have plenty of experience dating men that are always in the hole.

I hate being in the financial pit. As a single mother I've had to learn to recognize the difference between what I want and what I need. I've had to break things down into a necessary money pile and a money to burn pile (and at this point the money to burn pile is still a pipe dream). I have a tight budget, every penny has its place, and that includes a small amount for my daughter and I to go out to dinner and a movie once in a while. But when I find myself going on a date with a man who either wants to go dutch or can't pay at all... let's just say I can feel my blood beginning to boil as I write this.

Don't ask me out on a date if you can't pay for it. Furthermore, don't try to have a long-term relationship with me if you can't even pay your rent. I have my own financial difficulties and a daughter to feed and clothe, so spare me your sob stories and don't mooch off the single mom. As my wise father once said to me, "I've counseled a lot of people in marital crisis, and once poverty jumps in love jumps out." This isn't materialism, this is financial prudence. I don't need designer clothes, or the latest mauve-colored tract home, or an oversized gas guzzling SUV. I just need someone who knows how to manage what funds he has and doesn't succumb to the capitalist temptation of keeping up with the proverbial Jones's.

5. This one I'm stating loosely: No young children.
It seems hypocritical, I know, because I have an eight-year-old. And I am not saying that if a man meeting standards 1 through 4 appeared with his own eight-year-old I would blow him off. No, I'm just exercising a bit of caution here as I know blended families can be hell. My ex-husband married a woman with two kids from a prior marriage and... well... lets just say that his life right now is a testament as to why standard number five needs to be considered. I'm not overly keen on hearing, "Oh yeah! Well you're not my mom!" Nor am I excited about sibling rivalry and disciplining a child that isn't mine.

I guess for once I can say I've been spoiled. It's been just my daughter and I since she was fifteen months old. We lead a very quiet and peaceful life over here: no yelling, no fighting over the front seat, no headlocks or twisted arms, no crazy ex-wives calling my house because her children live with me... Things are nice and calm here and I really like it that way. However, if I'm the same woman that expects Black Belt Mentality from my man, then it is only fair to expect it from myself. I am willing to say that a man that meets 1-4 is worthy of the curve ball disclaimer should he show up with a five or ten year old behind him. I will say that it would be a long period of observation, making sure the dynamics between all of us were going well, before any serious life-time decisions would be made.

So... there it is, "my five." I bring it up because, until now, only myself, the friend I mentioned, and two others really knew about this. I guess I'm thinking if it's on my blog it's now as permanent as the stone tablets bearing the ten commandments.

The truth is, these standards have been in place for over a year and I have to say it has been a liberating experience for me. Because I have this criteria, I've been able to recognize the dim-wits and such as soon as they walk my direction. They don't know it, of course, but I can easily endure their flirtatious fawnings and politely turn them down when asked out because I know they aren't what I'm looking for. And for those of you sitting there thinking, "What if he doesn't exist?" I say bah... He exists.

What I'm asking for isn't over the top, and I'm not asking for anything that I don't adhere to myself and I exist, don't I? But if it so happens that one of life's monkey wrenches is that I never get to meet this man, so be it. I've been alone for quite some time now and I'm pretty happy. Sure, it would be nice to have a man here to open that stubborn jar of pickles once in a while, it would be nice to have a man here to help me when my daughter is sick and I have to miss work again, and it would be nice to have a companion to talk with regularly and laugh with regularly, but even so... I'm still content and I can't ask for too much more.

If he doesn't exist, oh well. I refuse to settle for anything less.

Lonesome Traveler

I am the lonesome traveler
walking streets of chaos.
I hear the talkers talking,
voices on the wind
cold and passing.
I sometimes stand beside them,
and eat their ripened fruit.
They are blind to what they seek.
And so, I keep on walking.

I am the lonesome traveler
walking the crowded streets,
balking the vain chatter
of this group and that group
that stand beneath the Sun.
I hear the decorous rhetoric,
chiming through with clarity,
the song of harmonious division.
And so, I keep on walking.

I am the lonesome traveler
walking through the flat lands,
speaking my sound mind
and knowing no one will listen.
Not unlike the others,
I walk beneath the Sun
amidst the wheat and tares.
I am waiting for the setting.
And so… I keep on walking.

Lackadaisical Disorder

I was staring into the refrigerator when I noticed the same pot of pasta that has been in there for a week. Of course I had the thought, "I better get that out of there before something starts growing in it," which was followed by, "maybe there's already something growing in it," which was followed by, "oh...I'll take care of it later."

I then came in here to sit at the computer when I noticed the same pile of half folded laundry that has been sitting since Wednesday (somehow it's more convenient to frantically search for clothes in a pile of laundry than to find them neatly folded in a drawer). I looked at it for a moment (in fact, I keep looking at it right now... I can see it in my peripheral vision...ngh...) and told myself I'd deal with it later because I wanted to enjoy my coffee.

It was after that I started thinking about all of the OCD people I've met in my life and recalled how perfectly clean and tidy their homes were(I figure we all know that acronym by now, but just in case: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). For a moment I wished that I could borrow the disorder for a day, just one day, so I could feel a true sense of accomplishment and pleasure when I swiftly sweep through my home and exorcise the dusty demons of dull dirty duties -- my sacred sanctum called home would be cleansed. But alas... I'm not that way, nor would I really want to borrow the disorder fearing I couldn't give it back. I have successfully convinced myself that I am a more productive human being in the aspects of my life where it counts (say, the job that pays me to work hard Monday through Friday) if I treat the rest of my life in a sort of lackadaisical manner.

The problem with this is the minor amount of guilt that creeps in. You know, the guilt that says, "It would take less than five minutes to clean that pot in the fridge," or, "You know you could have that laundry folded and put away in thirty minutes," and then you remember that sloth is one of the seven deadly sins and your deeply rooted Baptist blood starts pulsing through your veins and suddenly you feel the need to act or cry out for help when... "Hey, I wonder if there's such a thing as Lackadaisical Disorder?" If I were suffering from something like OLD (Obsessive Lackadaisical Disorder) I wouldn't have to feel this guilt because I would be unable to control my behavior.

By definition, the lackadaisical human approaches things without interest, vigor, or determination. There's a reference in the dictionary calling the word an alteration of lack-a-day: a 1695 terminology. Just think of how many days of good clean use that pot in my fridge has lacked because of my disorder. And no wonder the laundry is still sitting there, it holds absolutely no interest to me...none. I would much rather sit here and write on a blog about, well, basically nothing at this point because I am determined to make some kind of ridiculous point. Even that, by definition, would fall under OLD: another dictionary reference to lackadaisical is to be idle or indolent especially in a dreamy way, followed up with this example, "she was annoyingly lackadaisical and impractical." How much more proof do I need to support my case?

Of course, there is a draw back. No matter how tempting it is to be relieved of responsibility for my lazy approach to household chores, successfully labeling myself with OLD might mean some psychological zealot would refer me to an institution for help. That institution would do their best to pick my brain and find just the right pill to prescribe in an attempt to help me take the laundry seriously. I would then struggle to defend myself against the label I so longed for ten minutes ago and I would point out my high grade point average I carried all the way through grad school. They would then label me with something like OAD (Over Achiever Disorder) and prescribe another pill. Again, I would come to my own defense and point to my imagination and creativity and my ability to write but to no avail: they would label me with HD (Histrionic Disorder) and prescribe yet another pill. They would also subject me to group therapy that would in turn create COD (Codependency Disorder) and well... I would become nothing but a system drone and somehow contribute to the betterment of society.

All that being considered, I take back everything I said above. As soon as I leave my computer I will go clean the pot in the fridge and fold my laundry. I will choose to change my patterns of procrastination and take responsibility for my actions. I prefer to stay "normal" than ever be given an "out" because I'm OLD.

Someone asked me...

...what I thought "The American Dream" meant today. Here is my response:

I believe when “The American Dream” originated, it was born of a people who were exhausted with governmental oppression. They were in search of a place where they too could be landowners, they too could be wealthy, and where they were free to worship their God without domination of the papal or aristocratic influence – a place where the playing field was wide open and level. They were in search of a space where they could define and express their individuality, and America, “The New World,” provided that space. While I believe these elements, these desires, still lie at the core of every human being, I feel that the American government has evolved in such a way that this dream ever slowly fades from view.

With each new socially constructed governmental program, we are basically being told that we can't think properly for ourselves and that we're not capable of making rational decisions. We are being told, ever so subtly, that the government knows how to invest our money, that the government knows what’s best for our children, and perhaps we should lie down, close our eyes, say nothing, do nothing, and let government dream for us. But if we open our eyes for a moment or two, we may find that government created ideas, intended to "help" us, have ultimately hindered us -- a catch 22. We may want to be free from government assistance and chase our dreams of higher education, individual expression and ownership, but if we remove what the government should have never put in place, large numbers of us will suffer.

Our children suffer because the government has stuck its hand into our education system so far that it has somehow become acceptable for high school graduates to have a sixth grade reading level. I suppose this is what happens when we allow the government to tell us that we are not capable of “decency,” we are not capable of teaching our children morals and ethics – after all, they do come to school with drugs, guns, and bombs. This is why the government sticks its hands into our schools and decides it is more important to provide birth control for our sixth grade daughters at the nurse's office than it is to actually teach them to think. This is why the government deems political correctness in the classroom more important than intellectual excellence. Instead of truly teaching and treating each student with honor, we cart “the potentials” away to "gifted class" and pat each little “failure” on the head, label them with a disorder, hand them a vial of pills, and because well… they just can’t help it.

In the mean time, the financial divide between us grows wider and our perceived opportunities seemingly start to fade. Our lacking education system continues to breed sets of intellectually deprived individuals, lying dormant in their ignorance and complacency, refusing to vote because they don’t understand the process or why it even matters. Therefore, lets all “turn on the tube” and watch the chaos unravel as these political “heroes” are “victimized” by their own hubris before our very eyes.

We live in a time where people base their political decision on "what the government will do for me" instead of saying, “help us keep the peace but please allow us to make this life work.” The people seem to forget that WE ARE the government, or at least we were supposed to be.

We live in a country where Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream of equality -- no racism and no segregation. Yet despite all of his efforts and accomplishments, something called political correctness, set into motion to “prod” us into "respectable" behavior, has somehow created an intellectual and emotional segregation between races that now requires perhaps another great leader, with his or her own dream, to properly correct it. The next step is to say, “Yes, we are different, but we bleed the same, we love and die the same, and we all desire a space to live and dream the best. I can learn from you and you can learn from me, so let’s do this together.” But which of us will be the first to say it, and how many of us will agree?

Because of this I say “The American Dream” has become “How can I successfully weave my way through this muck and mire, over which it seems I have no control, and still place myself into a position in which I can pursue Life, Liberty, and Happiness?” When will we teach our children that heroes don’t come with record labels and air brushed photographs? How can we show them that knowledge is power and the dumber we get the weaker we are? And how do we convince those in power that teaching the people to think while they enjoy life is more valuable to the nation than an illiterate multimillion dollar football star? When will it occur to us that something as simple as teaching people to read and question the power of rhetoric might in turn prevent something as “minor” as mortgage fraud?

But then again, if you take the time to think about it, I’m currently writing nothing but rhetoric as well. So… I ask you, is it making you think? Am I some kind of crazy dissenter of the social order? Or am I making some valid points? What does “The American Dream” mean to you and where does it fit right now?

Wake With Me And Dream...

I am as I am…
A dreamer…
Not the first, but possibly the last.
In My palms, numerous dreams
rising like mist and dust,
carried by Zephyrs and Blustering Breezes,
seeds to be planted,
falling amidst Thorns and Stones,
choked and stifled and growing in cracks,
never reaching fruition.

I am as I am…
A dreamer…
Roaming the endless halls and corridors
with Light so blinding
My eyes fall to the ground,
bearing My understanding,
never faltering, never fading,
seldom stumbling…I am…dreaming ...

One dream after another,
rising from My palms,
the projection of My energy,
like shining crystal spheres,
the treasures of My being and Yours
are plucked from the sky,
cast before Swine and swallowed
like slop.

Sleepers Awake!
The time for dreaming has come!
I cannot be the last,
nor was I the first,
and I cannot do this alone.

I am as I am and You must be as You are…
Dreamers…We…

...perspective.

We’re carried in the womb of our mother for nine months. Within those nine months our bodies have been fed and given everything we need to experience the world to come. And while we're still enclosed in this warm cozy place, there's a sudden burst and the amniotic fluid we've been floating in runs out. The surrounding walls begin to contract -- over and over and over -- until we're painfully squeezed out, head first, through some kind of canal (that's smaller than we are), only to be blinded by something called light, to be poked and prodded by men and women in blue scrubs with masks over their faces, and to be introduced to something called "shivering" because damn it's sure cold out here!

But there is beauty in all the physical pain; once we're placed in the caring arms of our mother and soothed by the familiar sound of her voice, the most recent nightmare disappears and we're ready to start our new journey.

From this day forward, Earth takes the place of our mother's womb; everything we need to grow and survive physically, intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually is provided for us here. Just keep in mind, there will always be growing pains:

Every broken heart we've had, every heart we've broken we learned from. Every time we laughed, every time we made someone laugh we learned some more. Every choice we made: ...spend it or save it? ...tell the truth or lie? ...should I eat this? ...should I have another drink? ...should I forgive and forget? ...should I choose love over hate? ...good over evil?

And what about all those dreams? The dreams we made come true, the dreams that didn't quite make it, and the dreams we're still striving for... And what about the dreams we have for those around us? The ones we pray they're bold enough to dream for themselves.

Until one day, sooner for some and later for others, all of our choices and accomplishments, all of the struggles and challenges we’d overcome are laid before us. And whether we’re lying peacefully on our bed, in a hospital with tubes down our throats, or unconsciously bleeding in the street, this is the time for the movement of our soul -- that eternal and mysterious thing that continued to grow and evolve through life as our bodies slowly died.

And as our bodies begin to contract, pushing us out with these final labor pains, may it be that we feel no regret as we prepare to leave these things behind. But should regret make itself known, let it be seen as the last lesson, our final assignment...to let go...

For good or for bad, Earth will reclaim all that we were and hopefully, as we leave this dark place we've grown so accustomed to, we will find ourselves blissfully blinded by a new light and find comfort in the sound of a new but still familiar voice saying, "Well done. Enter into your rest."

Day of St. Valentine

It's that time of year again, so last night I made my annual last minute run to pick up Valentines for my daughter's class party. Valentine's Day, in general, is a nuisance to me. For one, I've been divorced for eight years and always seem to find myself single on this day. Secondly, even when I haven't been single it wasn't that great (there's a reason I'm divorced...). Third, somewhere along the way I jumped on the whole "this is nothing but commercialized crap day" train. And fourth, the annual last minute run for Valentines somehow has the same feel as that irritating but necessary chore. Fortunately, as I came home with my daughter, my mood shifted as I watched her dive into the box of Super Hero Valentine Cards.

I was standing in the kitchen getting dinner ready when she walked in holding a card with The Invisible Woman on the front -- of course, looking strong, powerful, and beautiful. She then explained to me that her friend Mary doesn't like overly girly things. For this reason she planned to give Mary one of the super hero cards and asked for my advice. I looked over the card and looked at my daughter saying, "Absolutely, I would do the same thing." She smiled with confidence and sauntered back into the living room.

A few moments later she came back with The Incredible Hulk in her hand. She said to me, "You see this card? This one's going to Jason."
"It is, hm? Why?"
"Well, the way I see it, the hulk runs around crazy all the time, and that's Jason, he runs around crazy all the time. So, no offense to Jason, but he's the hulk."
She turned and walked away, and I couldn't help but laugh.

A bit more time passed and I poked my head into the living room to see her. She stopped writing and picked up another Invisible Woman card. She said, "See this one? This one is going to Evan."
I studied her a bit and asked, "Why?"
"It's no big deal," she said, "He has a crush on someone already. I just want to torture him a little." She nonchalantly turned her head and resumed writing on the card.
Again, I laughed to myself, not quite knowing how to interpret that one.

When I returned to dinner in the kitchen, I found myself overwhelmed with a sense of giddy joy. What I noticed about my daughter was how carefully she selected each card, carefully considering each of their personalities, and viewed these selections as accurate representations of her friends. Mary gets to see herself in the form of a super woman -- bearing the qualities of strength and power and beauty. Jason, though characteristically a vigilante for good, perhaps has a tendency to lose control. And Evan, well... he may be catching a glimpse of what he's apparently missing.

I didn't see all of the cards or everything she saw within her classmates, but I did see a sense of meaning to an otherwise commercial holiday. This was a moment where the concept of Love, in its purest form, was presented as an energy extended to all -- not just a significant other. It is a time when all of your friends receive something special from you, no matter how small. And because these thoughts crossed my mind, I wanted all of my friends and family to know that I love them and find great value in their company. ... and Happy Valentine's Day too.