One lengthy and entirely satisfactory reason why my boyfriend is the most wonderful man on earth

(If you are one of my faithful Weeds readers who has known about this delightfully sneaky scheme of Daniel's for awhile, this is how it all went down. If you aren't, and this is new to you, hold on to your hat, for you are about to be dazzled.)


Valentine's Day morning is a bittersweet thing for one who is deeply in love, but very, very far from one's beloved. Fortunately for me, Daniel, sweetheart that he is, had planned ahead and sent me, along with some mix CDs, a little sealed envelope not to be opened before said morning. I don't think I can overstate my hopes for what that package might contain. It is fairly easy to grasp, then, how puzzled I was when I did open it. It contained a single strip of paper, on which was written "THERE IS NO PERFECT NAME FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE." And while I do agree with the statement, and consider it a fine one, it just simply wasn't what I had hoped for as a Valentine's offering. Plus, it made me feel kinda dumb. "I don't get it" I said out loud. This was obviously referring to something else, something bigger--it had to--but I had not the first clue as to what that might be. I tried very hard not to be disappointed--obviously, whatever this was supposed to be, Daniel had put thought into it--but I was. I proceeded to have a horrible morning from there on, one of those when you can't manage to dress yourself or do your hair, and I played some of the most depressing Pedro the Lion songs and wept for this long-distance love thing fucking sucks.

But I had plans for the day, and so tried to keep my trembling chin up to go about them. At eleven I was having coffee with my friend Matthew Wolferstan. He had insisted on inviting me out for Valentine's morning, and I didn't think a thing about it. We're good friends, and also my other friend Matthew (from here on he will be referred to as St Matthew) had already invited me for dinner that night, on the logic that he didn't have anyone to take out, and that Daniel wasn't here to take me out, and that someone should, so he would. There's been enough joking around about the whole dating-by-proxy thing, and these invites just fell in line with that, so I didn't question them. So at eleven, I went to meet Matt W. At a nearby bakery. When he greeted me at the door with a single red rose, I burst out laughing. See, the previous night at the pub, we'd had a discussion regarding which flowers are okay to give to girls. No carnations, ever, I said. Someone asked whether single red roses were okay. Sure I said, so long as there is no baby's breath or ferns attached and that you don't present the flower to her holding it in your teeth. So, when I saw the rose, I first thought it was a joke. But then I saw there was a strip of paper attached to it, with a line of poetry? song lyric? attached to it. What is this? I asked Matt W. It's part of the puzzle, was his answer. Well, again, I was puzzled.

I didn't clue in until St Matthew waltzed in, handed me a single red rose, wished me Happy Valentine's Day, and then stormed out. I saw that this was Daniel's doing, and indeed it was marvelous to my eyes. I knew that both of them had been plotting this, and gotten Matt W. on board. But the sheer magnitude of the thing hadn't hit me yet. That didn't happen until my friend Janet walked in with--you've guessed it--a single red rose. I started to cry. Please understand: I'm a pretty confident person (I am, after all an only child--that is, the center of the universe), I know I'm fairly cute and pretty smart, but still I find this whole business of being loved utterly baffling. Now, to be loved in a such a way that justifies such extravagance, forethought, logistics and just sheer excess of romanticism is not only something that has never happened to me, ever, before, but something I hadn't imagined ever would. I was--I am--deeply confounded, profoundly humbled, and absolutely ecstatic.

Tears soon gave way to laughter as I saw my friend Allison come in. This is how it went all day: in total twelve people, friends whom I love, took time out of their day & went out of their way to bring me a total of fourteen roses, each one with a line from a poem attached--a sonnet of roses. At work, at the library that afternoon, two young families came to do the deed. (Nice touch, the use of children. Gideone Kremler, three, thrusting the rose out proudly: "Appy Malemtine Zday Fanny dissis wrom Daniel!") As Matthew said to me that night, with this stunt Daniel won himself the heart of my friends, colleagues, and family. (My own heart, of course, had been won & given long, long before this.) When I told my mom the story she was, obviously, deeply touched, and very impressed, and told me to tell Daniel that he was from now on free to screw up however much he wished for he has, as far as she is concerned, bought himself a lifetime of grace.

The roses were beautiful. The poem is amazing. Love makes you do things you never thought you would do: the other day I could be found drying frikkin' rose petals in the frikkin' microwave, arguably the most craft-y thing I've done since grade school, so that I could keep them.

It was without contest the best Valentine's day ever, and if I've had a better day--any old sort of day--I don't remember. It would be very easy for me to go on gushing, but moderation remains a virtue. All I have left to say is this: my darling Daniel, I love you. Thank you. You've set the bar now, and I accept the challenge. To all you men out there, take a lesson from my beloved--this is how to do it. And to you ladies--it does happen.


Here is the poem:


THERE’S NO PERFECT NAME FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE

I can’t believe my own voice when I call
you baby. Have I told you this? Better
with babe—more laconic, suits whatever drawl
I take from Texas—but there’s not a letter

or a call I don’t hesitate to name
you anything. Words fall short or stumble
past you, like book reports eighth graders aim
at Dostoyevsky, miss. Phonemes fumble,

fail to summarize, to label. There’s no word
I’d trust you to, unless there’s one for laughter
in some obscure tongue that means absurd,
delighted, two-thousand-mile-long laughter,

or that means silence, that’s said by saying
nothing, love—it’s just my way of naming.

Poem

WEEKS, STILL


Scraps of sun. Yesterday
it was sheet after torn sheet
of rain. The straightness
of the headless daffodils unnerves me:
I want them to bend, thin-necked,
with the weight of blooms.
Weeks to wait, when all the silk
and spools of thread needed to fashion
the flowers are already packed
and ready to go.

Genesis

I just came in from a walk, drunk with spring. It is the first full-on morning of such light & sweetness, with the sun shining bright and hot. Out in the woods, the Indian plums are beginning to bud: they are the first shrubs to go into leaf, and soon they'll be flinging out of their pockets clusters of tiny white bells by the thousands, incensing the forest air. Down on the ground I spied the first fragile tendrils of what will be white fawn lilies in about two month's time. Over by the field I could hear water seeping down the length of the slope. The bald eagle is back: I heard his surprisingly high, gentle call while sitting under a regal maple. I also heard a hummingbird, whistling as he does his acrobatics of love. On the pond a small flock of Canada geese was grazing among the reeds.

It was after such a walk, a year ago today, that I came in, flipped on the computer (I was labouring on my ancient laptop then--what progress we've seen) and gave birth to this blog. To celebrate this first birthday, I thought I would give a full creation account. This tale will likely go down in history, and will be one you tell your grandchildren one day, so listen closely.

It all started, as such things often do, one Friday night at the pub. My friend Matthew and I were gathered around beers, bitching theological in usual form. It is more than likely that at one point I went on my usual rant about the fact that in a community of 600 like-minded Christians there is not one guy I can date. (Apologies to those who might be reading this, but c'mon, you know it could never work between us.) But instead of nodding as usual, sympathetic but bored, that night Matthew brightened up. That night Matthew was the man with the plan.

"I have found the perfect guy for you," he said.

"Really?"

This I had to hear. Matthew is my closest friend, and knows more about me than just about anyone else (save for one notable exception--you two would have to slug it out as to who gets the title.) If he thought he'd found the perfect guy for me, there was a very strong possibility he might be right. So he started describing this guy to me: he's a philosophy student, he's incredibly smart, he's a poet and a damn good one, he's Christian, he's funny, he's an awesome writer and if he were to walk in one night at the pub where all our crew congregates he wouldn't miss a beat but fall right in line with our thinking & humour. Wow, I thought, he does sound perfect.

"Who is this guy, anyway?" I asked, probably quite eagerly.

"His name is Daniel. He lives in Texas."

Uh-oh. Texas?

"Are you seriously suggesting that I consider not only an internet relationship, but one with a guy who lives in Texas? How desperate do you think I am?"

At which point Matthew was probably mercifully quiet, and understood that he needed to change gears. So he started telling me about his own blog, and this guy's blog, and how I needed to start my own. Despite my extreme wariness of anything virtual, I still had to agree that this blog thing sounded pretty cool, and that even though I seriously, seriously doubted it was a reasonable way to find a boyfriend, I figured it would be good for my writing.

So I started my own blog. I checked out Matthew's. I checked this guy Daniel's, and though I had to agree that Matthew was right on all accounts that still didn't change the fact that the guy lives in Texas, and I, at the time, was just not willing to consider such a situation.

Well, as it turns out, the joke's on me.

But this is the story of my blog, not the story of Daniel and I, so I'll stop here. The rest, as the saying goes, is history. Of course now it's altogether hilarious and amazing to think back on that night at the pub, considering the way things did go down. It just serves to confirm my theory that all writers, ultimately, are exercizing their craft in order to find love.

And some of us lucky ones just happen to find it.