The Thing About Things

I know we're not supposed to love "things." Actually, technically, I believe it's okay to love things as long as we're not attached to them. Emotionally, that is, not as in joined at the hip.

And of course we have to take into consideration the definition of love. Is it a feeling that enfolds such qualities as trust and loyalty and commitment, or is it merely a blip that appears on our radar screen regardless of the quality of a relationship? You may know someone who says "I love you" the way others say "God bless you" when a person sneezes. That kind of "I love you" -- forged from shallow habit --sounds good, but it's based on quantity (being said to practically everyone), not quality, as in "What we have is special."

That having been said, let's get back to things. These are some of the things I love, and why:

I love my bathtub. My husband installed it when I retired, so that I could take my luxuriating to a higher level than a mere soak. My tub has adjustable jets that churn the water, and a heating system that keeps the water at a desired temperature regardless of how long I remain emerged. I've had it for seven years now and I suppose I could become blase and simply take it for granted, but I choose to remain appreciative and enthralled.

I love crickets. Not the little critters themselves, but the sound they make rubbing their little legs together in an attempt to find a mate, and announcing the arrival of spring. I've had people tell me their chirping drives them nuts, but to me it's a nighttime lullaby that connects me with nature even as I rest indoors, snug in my soft, warm bed.

I love the first big sip of a cold beer from a frosty bottle, on a hot summer day. Anything after that first sip looses my interest and I may continue drinking the brew to be polite, but I'll never down the last swallow from the bottom of the bottle. By then, it's already over for me. And I don't need another. But that one beer has to be cold, and it has to be in a bottle, not a can or a cup or a glass. Well, maybe a glass, if it's not plastic or styrofoam or cardboard. A glass glass.

I love the thing that happens when my horse and I look into each other's eyes. It doesn't happen with all horses, not even those I "owned" years ago. Just Brandi. It doesn't happen now and then, it happens every time we look at each other. There's a message that passes between us, that can't be put into words. It didn't happen at the onset of our relationship, it simple appeared at some point in time, and took my breath away. It still does.

I love the American Flag. For most of my life I took it for granted and assigned it little value, until I attended my father's burial with full military honors. The flag that draped his casket brought home to me the message that my father, at great personal risk and sacrifice, devoted his life to defending what our flag stands for. Now when I see our flag, I sigh. A deep in-breath fills me with loyalty to my father and gratitude to others like him, and an out breath directs my emotions toward all who have earned and will forever deserve my deep admiration.

I love gardenias. They're very assertive. Even though they have a "what-you-see-is-what-you-get" attitude, you know when one is nearby even if you can't see it. Their fragrance is distinctive, never to be confused with the rose or sweet pea, for example. And they're so self-confident that they don't need to dress up in colors. White does quite nicely, thank you very much. Nothng subtle about a gardenia, or pretentious. It makes itself known unapologetically. It is authentic if it is anything.

Lastly, I love love. It is a warm and fuzzy thing, but also has some rough edges. It isn't for the weak of heart. It can lift you up and it can drop you down. Either way there's no denying it's power. It's what makes life worth living, and even when it's bad, it's good. You simply need to accept that love, like everything else in life, changes. It's a living thing. It can take some lumps, and if they aren't too many and don't come too hard too fast for too long, it can self-heal. It can also fade, which simply means transform itself into something perhaps indiscernible. I don't believe it goes away. It just goes into hiding -- and sometimes stays there, rather than go back to where it is unwanted, unappreciated, or unnurtured.

So the thing about things is that things matter. When we run into trouble, is when they matter too much.