All About Love

I'm not doing Valentine's Day. Not in the commercial sense. For me and my husband, the winnowing of essential gift-giving down to zero started back in September, before our anniversary (I had some weeks to get used to it), and at this point it feels entirely normal. The mutual agreement not to buy is mostly driven by the recession, the real uncertainty of work for both of us, and the fact that we really can't spend like we used to.

But that original impetus has been taken over by something else kind of lovely: we don't miss the stuff. Without the occasional but intense obligation of giving and receiving (Will she like it?/Will he notice if I don't wear it?) our relationship seems clearer, leaner. It's dropped extra pounds it didn't need. I admit, I do miss some of the context of gift-giving--the speculating, the day-long mystery of the wrapped box, the fine exhilaration of peeling away paper as you approach the moment of truth. But let's face it, those are the best parts; the gift itself, however wonderful, is all anticlimax. By March I'm always lucky if I remember half the things I got for Christmas.

So what takes the place of such a ritual? What's a high expression of love in a post-stuff environment? In a word, or two words, doing and being. On Sunday I'll likely take a walk somewhere with my husband and three dogs in a place that we like but don't often visit in a leisurely way, a place like Larchmont or El Segundo or the walking trail above the 405 in the Sepulveda Pass that I always forget the name of. We'll go, allow ourselves to be transported by the place and the togetherness and the time--Valentine's Day, after all! Then we'll come back home and re-settle into the love of place that really matters. It hasn't always been easy accepting where I live; I hold Inglewood at arm's length as often as I embrace it. I walk it daily with a certain pride, I retreat behind locked doors when trouble erupts, I tolerate it when I should be holding it to the ideals that make any place more than just a place to live. I am disappointed by it, then indifferent to it (though I'll take disappointment over indifference any day). I toggle between seeing the city as I'd like to see it, and how the outside world sees it: I always strive for the former, but too often I get distracted by the latter.

Love is tough. Especially when there's nothing--no stuff, no obvious notion of a gift or reward --to get between you and it. But really, you would want it any other way?

This image was taken by flickr user Pipiten. It was used under the Creative Commons License.