(This post could be dedicated to soooooo many people, but I choose my sistas—Lynne, Susan, Tina, and Lisa. In case I haven’t told you all enough—or maybe even ever: I love you!)
Happy Friday, the 13th to all! February rushed out the door before I could fit in a post. I hate that. A monthly post is a promise I made to myself, for myself, in 2018. Mostly I’ve been faithful to it.
Sometimes I’m not sure it matters. The writing. Then again, it matters to me. Perhaps Flannery O’Connor put it best: “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”
Today I want to write about love. Yes, pastel-colored flowers dot my front door wreath, having replaced last month’s red hearts. February is a rearview memory. But my thoughts on love—specifically, on saying the words “I love you”—those thoughts have continued to steep.
In Baby Butch: a memoir (in progress), Rosaia Shepard writes, “... when you love someone, you must say the words for them to bask in it. You must say, “I love you.” Rosaia’s work is lovely throughout, but those words in particular resonate with me.
I don’t think she’s talking about an “I love you” cooed in a starry-eyed, passionate context. That can be scary to say, sure, when hearts are young and love is new and you want to say the words but what if they’re not echoed back? Rather, I think she’s talking about saying “I love you” to the people who live alongside you, the ones you care about, the ones who irritate you but also lift you, the ones who are part of your big fat messy everyday life.
Rice, our kids, and I are big on “I love you.” I admit, saying it can get rote, like a mindless habit. A few years ago I realized this when I ended a co-worker’s voicemail message with a quick "I love you". It tickled him, but I was embarrassed. Maybe I needed to get a grip. Maybe I should stop parroting it back if I wasn’t feeling it at that very moment? Later that day, Rice called. “I’m picking up milk,” he said. When he added, “I love you,” I didn’t say it back. It seemed so silly. He was talking about milk, not love. So why’d he say it? I’m not sure if he noticed I didn’t say it back. It didn’t feel good, though. As much as Rice, the kids, and I are big on “I love you,” my mother Grace wasn’t. She was part of the Greatest Generation. Her ancestors championed big families, likely to help tend the fields. Survival was key. Telling offspring “I love you” was not. Grace continued that tradition with her daughters. Actions spoke louder than words, she believed. I don’t think we sisters felt unloved, even if she never said the words. Of course, I should let each sister speak for herself. Still, one recollection haunts me to this day, even if only a little. In my mom’s final year, she battled ovarian cancer and dementia, and poor balance caused frequent falls. At one point, she needed surgery for a broken hip, and I worried she might not come through it. She did, although she was loopy as hell in post op. I knew she still poo-pooed “I love you,” but somehow I thought the time was right. As I left her room for the night, I called out, “I love you, Mom.” Her response? “Okay.”
Through the years my sisters and I have laughed about that exchange. Our mom’s comeback was totally “gracious,” as we girls called it whenever she grew...well, she could be cantankerous. But I didn’t find this particular response out of character or mean-spirited. It didn’t feel good, though.
So here’s the deal. We’re living in tough times, what with divisive politics, a world pandemic, a tumultuous stock market. What’s the harm in saying I love you? If you do, that is. It might feel a little awkward, maybe rote, perhaps like a mindless habit. Failing to say it won’t feel good, though.
Speaking of love, I love sustaining this blog. It helps me process my world and clarify what I'm thinking. I’m pleased any time someone tells me something on this site has resonated with them. To those who visit to read and maybe even share, I thank you. Or perhaps I should say, “I love you”? I do, you know. I love you for connecting and wish you a splendid day.
(Final note to my sistas: pssst, see below.)
Cheers ~ Jan
