In my cupboard there are many mugs. All which have a story. Many came from trips to Europe and the east coast and several were gifts. We have enough mugs for five families, yet there are two of us now and I refuse to part with any. Call me stubborn or perhaps call me a hoarder.
I have a little tiny mug with hearts on it. I received it when I was 19 years old from my then fiancé, who basically becomes paralyzed when it comes to giving gifts. Let's just say, he is not known for his gift giving savvy. Obviously, this is clearly my favorite coffee mug, and a very good chance one of my favorite gifts he's ever given me. It has journeyed through almost 27 years of marriage, several moves, two children, and many dinner dinner parties where I panicked thinking somebody's surely going to drop it.
It was valentine's Day 1989.
Today, and like every February 14 every year I am reminded about love. The power of love, the memory of early love, the value of love, the need for love, the security of love. I am thankful and humbled that my mug story is a love story that has spanned the years. I feel it's rariety. I know it's value.
I watch as young love buds all around me and as love dissolves around me. Love is fragile. Love his work. Love is a choice. Love is beautiful. Keep fighting for it if you don't have it.
On this Valentine's Day in 2017 I wake up with a splitting migraine and a brutal head cold, and there sitting in my cupboard is my little valentines mug ready to welcome me into today. He makes coffee and we drink to the light of a candle, our daily routine, no different today.
While yes, it is a fickle holiday, having one day a year to celebrate love is a good reminder to hold those you love tight. To hug your friends, to hug your family, to hug yourself.
Be happy. Love deeply.