Writing Through Cancer

Cupid, draw back your bow
And let your arrow go
Straight to my lover’s heart for me, for me
Cupid, please hear my cry
And let your arrow fly
Straight to my lover’s heart for me

(from the 1961 hit, “Cupid,” by Sam Cooke)

It’s that time of year again.  Walk into almost any retail store, and you’ll be surrounded by red and white decorations, images of Cupid and a multitude of hearts.  Glossy advertisements abound, featuring an array of gifts far more expensive than the traditional heart-shaped box of chocolates my father used to give my mother each February 14^th.  And valentine cards, from the sentimental to the comic, are everywhere, obliterating the memory of those prized cellophane packages of 36 valentines we were eager to exchange with our classmates or the construction paper and doily creations, painstakingly cut and pasted, that we carried home to our parents on Valentine’s Day.

I cringe now, at the commercialism that overtakes nearly every holiday. Valentine’s Day is no exception.  And yet, there I was, last week, standing in front of the card racks, trying to find the right valentine for each of my three grandchildren and my husband.  I succumbed to the children’s cards embedded with musical tunes, knowing the fun they have when they open them, but for my husband?  I couldn’t find anything that communicated the sentiments I wanted to convey.  I ended up with a packet of red lace doilies and the intent to create my own valentine for him, something I haven’t done for years, at least on Valentine’s Day.

The truth is that I write little poems for my husband all year round.  In fact, I bought a small red metal replica of a mailbox, one that opens with just enough room for a half sheet of paper, folded in quarters.  Once a month, perhaps more often, I write a poem and place it in the mailbox.  I close it and attach a small flag with the words,“poem inside,” that I made with a toothpick and small triangle of paper.  I guess you could say I send my husband valentines year-round, which is probably the reason I couldn’t find much to inspire me among all the retail cards displayed in the shops.

Expressions of sentiment, whether captured in small verses, letters, postcards, or even the handmade paper and doilies version of youth, don’t need a designated calendar holiday to be given to someone we care about.  These are small gifts, year-round valentines that say, “I appreciate you,” “I’m thinking of you,” or “I love you.”

I think of Ted Kooser’s little book of poems, Valentines.  In 1986,  inspired by a friend who sent handmade valentines out each year, Kooser began sending out a postcard bearing a red heart in the corner and a short poem written on the card to women around the country who had signed his mailing list.  The project lasted 20 years, until his mailing list became too large, and thus, too expensive, for him to continue, but his efforts resulted in a delightful book of those valentines published in 2008 by the University of Nebraska.

This past week, we’ve received several cards, notes from friends, written by hand and sent to pay tribute to the pet we had to bury.  They may have been expressions of sympathy, but they are, in a real sense, valentines–words that conveyed affection for us and for our little dog. Those cards sit on my desk, and I re-read them often.  It’s a small gesture, these handwritten notes, but in a world that is much too given to the shorthand of text messages or emails, taking the time to express affection, gratitude, or simply friendship in this way seems all the more important. Valentine’s Day is a good excuse to get started, but here’s the thing:  you can do it anytime.  You don’t have to wait for a special holiday or event.  You don’t have to be a poet.  The simple act of pausing to remember those we care about and those who have cared for us in times of struggle, hardship or illness, reminds us of what matters most in our lives:  people, friendship, love.  These are truly the gifts of the heart.  Why not write your own valentine for someone you love?

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

(From “i carry your heart (I carry it in)” by e.e. cummings, The Complete Poems, 1904-1962)

 

To each of you who read these posts, I wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day.