I am stingy with the word “love.” Real stingy. It took me so long (and so many boyfriends) to come to my own conclusion about the meaning of “love” that I don’t just toss the word around like pretzels. I try to cherish it–reserve it for the real deal, if you will.

In honour of St. Valentine’s Day (a holiday I struggle with normally), I’ve decided to conquer my petty misgivings by writing a series of love letters. To institutions, things, and people that I really do love. Today’s is about life.

Dear My Life,

I love you. I love the direction you’ve taken over the past 12 months. I love where you and I have ended up. We’re in the right place for us right now.

It’s been hard, to be sure. I miss home. I miss family. I miss The Familiar. The Comfort Zone. The carne asadas and QTs. Every time I go back, it gets harder to leave.

Sometimes I complain about you, My Life. I get disgruntled with the sky. I get frustrated with my husband–nobody ever warned me how hard it would be to communicate with the testosterone of it all. Sometimes I get so discouraged about where I am and who I’m with that all I can do is curse you, My Life. It doesn’t really make me feel better. Not when I know the good in you outweighs the bad, one hundred to one…

How many women are free to do what they want, when they want? Not many. I love that I’m young and (for the most part) still energetic. I love that my time is my own–not my kid’s. I love that I have so much: so much family…so much to be thankful for. I love that I can afford to shop at Costco; it’s my very favourite.

But my love for you goes deeper, Life. I love that you’ve taught me to have compassion over the years. Good heavens, how I worried as a teenager that I’d never be able to feel compassion. It was a hard lesson to teach me, I’m sure; presenting me with a grandfather who grew slowly more feeble–did you have to stoop so low?

He meant so much to me; I miss him every day. Couldn’t you have taught me compassion some other way? Probably not.

I love that you’ve grown with me–it takes more to fulfill you than it did a few years ago, but I’ve tried to pack you with good experiences.

In our travels about the world, I’ve learned so much about you, My Life; and so much about other peoples’ lives.

I guess this is overly-optimistic (which I generally try to avoid being, because of the guaranteed disappointments), and totally cheesy, but I’m not naive. I know you are going to become more difficult–more complicated. It’s a fact of you.

But I’m looking forward to the challenges you will bring, and I hope I can rise to meet them. I can’t wait to spend the rest of you with you. Does that make any sense?

My Life is good.

I love Life.

Sincerely,

Me

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