Yesterday, Valentine’s Day, a miracle happened.
Does the Universe talk to you, like it does to me? No kidding.
There I was, Miss Perfectionist as ever (see Enneagram personalities), falling into my familiar self-imposed ditch.
See, the challenge of real love, for us perfectionists, is to accept people exactly as they are. Yup. We keep wanting to fix and improve. Ourselves and others.
Try that sometime, as you grow older, when you and yours are physically declining.
Dissatisfied. That’s me, darn it. As much as I want to feel satisfied, the mind rolls in the opposite direction.
I’m married to a good guy for decades, through good and bad, and gosh I get grumpy about it. (I could complain more specifically here, but why?)
Maybe I could blame this on the usual hype, pre-Valentine’s Day.
How could I fix it so we could look like those youngsters in the ads?
Nope. (Did I say decades?)
I was not looking forward to Valentine’s Day, because I couldn’t make it perfect.
Not even close to perfect.
I tried to bury my dissatisfaction, because it was so imperfect of me, you know.
February 13th my good guy gave me a huge bouquet of every-color flowers. Vibrant! Beautiful! And I got busy making a heartfelt personalized card for him.
What? I did.
When we woke up on the 14th, the entire bouquet of flowers, every one, looked exactly like this:
I did not take a photo of the depressing bunch.
It was beyond sad, the whole colorful bouquet dying overnight. They had sucked up all nine inches of water, then died of thirst.
(Dying of thirst. Make what you will of that metaphor.)
We – uh – shined it on. Dead flowers for Valentine’s Day. Okay. No big deal. They were nice yesterday.
Oh, and he’d planned to barbeque but postponed it, because he was sick, poor guy. Belly pain. Fever.
He filled up the blue vase of dead flowers with water again, just because. A kind gesture.
I rummaged through freezer and pantry to put together a dinner plan for the afternoon.
Chicken Piccata with capers, okay?
Two naps later, he felt good enough for my fancy meal.
Then we saw: about half of the flowers had lifted their heads. I’ll be darned.
We watched home movies of good times together, through history. Had a few laughs.
By evening, the whole bouquet of flowers had re-inflated.
Now, I’m no florist, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen this happen (in five decades).
I call it a miracle.
I call the whole day as it unfolded a big fat metaphor.
A giant Wink and a Blessing.