To All My Valentines

Dear Antenna Hands,

What would I do without you, seriously? If I love anyone more than you it would be Feet, but there’s not a chance. You do everything for me—cooking, cleaning, washing, writing, creating--but you also do those subtle gestures that make the words out of my mouth stick. When you team up with Face, between the two of you, the world can make sense of me. (And some days that’s a feat!) (Not feet.)

And the other thing. You know I call you my Little Antennae. It’s because you’ve relayed to me the softness of the world, as well as its cold hard facts. Do you remember the feeling of the kids’ skin when they were naked except for diapers, and such a sensation of downy virtue? When you dragged your fingertips across their bellies and legs and heads, I thought nothing bad would happen ever again.

And do you remember that day when Grandpa sat next to Grandma’s casket with his hand glued to the top of her torso, blind as can be, and as sad? You put yourself next to his hand to feel what he was feeling, though he couldn’t see, though perhaps his hand felt you there, too. Grandma was so hard to the touch, like a rock. Your palm told me she’d never light up the room with her laugh again. It’s those things I want to thank you for.

Hands, I’m sorry that I get short with you when you drop all the things, like today the vitamins. I know you serve me loyal as a dog. I’m grateful for you far more than I have ever said.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Little Antennas.

Dear Diligent Feet,

Happy Valentine’s Day, buddies. I just wrote to Hands and told them I love them more than you, and I’m only telling you this in case word gets out. But I want you to know I love you second best, which is FAR more than I love Tinnitus Ears. My goodness, have you carried me a distance. I don’t even want to divulge how far. People would think you’re nuts. You were good runners at one time, but now you’re my hardy walkers. Mostly you’re my sturdy stakes in the ground holding me up as I put in the hours at my desk. I wish I painted your toenails more, because it is cheerful when I see you all fussed up. If there were only more weddings and parties scheduled on my calendar. But why do I need such excuses? Being alive is a party enough.

Feet, if I ever want to do anything at all, your toes press in, your heels smack down, and off I go. I realize this project of moving me around is a team effort, but so much of it falls onto you. You scurried me through the cornfield rows fifty-some years ago as I played hide and seek. You walked me and baby Quinn all over NYC when he’d stowaway in the papoose. You flutter me through the water. You give me traction when I push the wheelbarrow. You tap me along to the rhythm of songs. I want to take care of you, because it would be such a fitting poem to have you walk me off into that last sunset one day. Let’s see how it all plays out.

But I want to apologize for getting frazzled with you when you trip and stumble me. I act like you’re supposed to be a thing of perfection, which is a batty idea—there’s no such thing. I know you’re one of my best supports. I appreciate this more than I can say.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my little dancers.

Dear Sponge Eyes,

Even though you’re dark brown, you pull in the blue sky above me and shoot it to the back of my brain like an Olympian archer to give me color all over my mind. You’re so wide open and persistent that I do apologize for walking on the snow the other day without sunglasses. You were right to squint in protest. I want to treat you better. The doc said a while ago to eat kale because of the macular degeneration in the family, and I’m doing that, but I might do more. So, sunglasses and kale. I’m on it.

I’m starting to rethink my comment to Hands. It may be that I love you most. Without you, my life would have been so different. I’m a visual person. I loved the scenery out there as a girl and made large sculptures of it later as a young woman. Now I make over-the-top exclamations to complete strangers about all the beauty, and just last year started writing a blog to disseminate some of that gaga excitement--all of this because of what you bring to me, Eyes. And that’s not even the half of it.

It’s Valentine’s Day soon. I wanted to tell you that for two small orbs, you’ve helped to create someone’s life experience. I’m indebted. I bow to you. And I’m not proud that I’m a huffy snap with you when you don’t have your glasses on. Please know I am who I am because of you.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my precious orbs.

Dear Willingness,

Sheesh. Where do I start? If it wasn’t for you, I’d be in my bed all day. Or angry. Or freaked out. Or disbelieving. You’re the spark to every possibility I ever reached. It all began with you.

Dang. Why did I say that thing to Hands? But then Eyes? I’m a premature valentine is what I am. What I can say with certainty is that I'm SO grateful for your willingness to be willing.

This is like a pre-willingness that allows me to approach life with openness, like a daisy spread wide. Then with one hand I let go, and with the other grasp something better. For example, do you remember that time you helped me let go of my perception that my husband was trying to drive me bananas? You helped me grab onto the understanding that he’s doing the best he can, and this was only the preliminary willingness. The main event was an acceptance that I, too, can drive my husband bananas, and that I’m doing the best I can. But do you recall what happened after that? You allowed me to rethink what my best might be.

I’m going to get a bad reputation here, I know. But I’m publicly reconsidering my past statements. I do indeed love you most of all. You make my life bountiful. The more you allow me to stay open, the more my pile of goodness grows. Or, in math terms, you increase my luck.

I don’t want to get down on you for the times you go hide in a box. Instead, I want to start opening that box and gently coaxing you out with some nice daisies. I will commit to that.

Happy Valentine’s Day, wise one. Let’s toast to bananas, shall we?

Dear Super Courage,

As I sit down to write this, I’m reminded of how many times you took my hand as we jumped off the cliff together. The cliffs weren’t that high, in retrospect, but they sure seemed like it at the time. I know you work in the background, helping Willingness, but I want you to know I see your work. Sometimes you feel to me like a wind whipping through without much warning. Other times you feel like an anguish that won’t stop needling the gut of my values until I get up and make a move. You are a dual friend, with dual methodology—one for instantaneous, one for premeditated. Either way, you bust me through the doors of my history and send me off to my future.

More to the point, you keep me stalwart so that I can, in essence, love myself more fully.

You’re constantly there, aren’t you? You’re there after I make mistakes to help me rectify and recreate. You’re there at the precipice of my best opportunities, which I almost don’t recognize until you stick your finger at my back and jab it in. You’re there when life changes, as it does for all of us, when you wrap your arm around my waist and say, Come on, let’s go. You’ve promised me you’ll be there when I’ll have to say goodbye to the people I love as they pass on. I’ve argued tooth and nail with you over this, but you’re Courage, so you stand there with the body of a superhero and give me the most tender hug.

Now that I think of you in this way, I know I love you more than anything I’ve ever touched or seen, which is odd since I often just want you to go away. I want to be a better host to you, but I can’t promise anything. Instead, I’ll put a special placemat at the table for you.

Happy Valentine’s Day, strong companion of mine.

My Dear Silly Heart,

It seems I’ve made a mess of this Valentine’s Day. I don’t know the last time I even noticed it was Valentine’s Day, but I thought I’d pay a little homage this year—to appreciation, to thankfulness. Instead, I hear the different parts of me are vigorous now about my rotating favoritism. In my defense, I hadn’t thought much about how each aspect of me was so pivotal until I put my mind to the notion. Frankly, between friends? I’m aware they all work in concert to make things cushy around here. But from one moment to the next someone will stand out, stand up, or stand down (which is just as noteworthy). This gets my heart. My humble body is quite amazing. Look at the life it’s given me.

But here I am, aren’t I? Having saved you for last. While certain parts of me can inform or envision or nudge, you bring me back to the one message I need to survive: I am worthy. I always ask you the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Why so?

And you always answer: Because so.

I can never make good sense of this riddle of yours, but the more I hear you say it, the more it becomes clear as sunlight on the day. It seems that from the top of the social echelon to the bottom, we all question our worth. There is always some metric we aren’t living up to, and usually this metric is one of our own. This is a devaluation, which is nothing you want part of, which is why I saved you for the end of these letters. You are my best advocate and fan. I gave you the choice one time, do you remember? I said, “Okay. You get only one: the exquisite stars, the life-giving sun, the boundless music, the harmonious sea, or me. Which do you choose?”

And you said, without skipping a beat, “You. I choose you, silly.”

Then I laughed but cried.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my silly Valentine. Which do you prefer, chocolates or roses?

Scratch that. I’ll give you both.