“He picked up his thunderbolt and the heavens shook with lightening and thunder. "Does this stuff make you as tired as it does me?” he shouted grumpily.
"Yes and no," I said as I so often say when he makes that particular statement. I’m indeed tired of stuff. But on the other hand, hey, I love stuff.
But right now my feelings about stuff are so ambivalent….doesn’t all this stuff smack of just what the culture is suffering from—too much irrelevant, unneeded, drummed-up-to-surprise-you-with-little-promise-of-pleasure STUFF?
I have an idea.
Ditch the stuff. For Valentine’s Day. All of it. Even the chocolates and flowers. Don’t buy a thing except some art supplies. Then tell your lover you don’t want anything at all except a love letter that he makes and creates, and that you’ll do the same and you’ll exchange cards over a lovely dinner. (Okay, you go out for dinner. But that’s not the same as buying STUFF.) It can’t be a love letter you or he buys, with a maudlin or cute message provided by Hallmark, but a love letter made and written by him for you and by you for him. You make up the terms. My friend Michael suggests that it be one thing each of you did or said this last year that meant a lot. That’s what I’m doing with Jove. He did something s meaningful that I even can tolerate that thunderbolt he keeps with him all the time.
And then, once you name the one thing (like, say, that he called when it was snowing to make sure you got out of the driveway; or that she drank, on a dare, four beers without stopping….whatever), you have to articulate why that one thing was so meaningful. That’s the hard part. Excavating the feeling, and then the words, that made that private part of you deep inside, usually not available for articulation, say, Yeah: That’s My Guy. Can you imagine how good he’ll feel hearing how he succeeded so brilliantly in making you love him—even if he did so only once this year?
Now that’s romantic. That’s saying, Hey, lover, you’re the best
So much better than stuff.
TLG
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