Happy Depressed Bachellor's Day

I suppose I don't have the right to call it that anymore, being romantically involved as I am, however the reason for my not being a true bachelor is, alas, far away in Austria, and I am spending the day alone save for thoughts of her. Therefore, I say happy Depressed Bachelor's Day to all. I have been told a couple times today how St. Valentine's day is another annoying Hallmark Holiday(like all other in this country), and I decided to do a little review of my saintly history.

St. Valentine was a priest who, in response to a ban on marriage by the Roman emperor Claudius the somethingth, kept marrying couples in secret. He believed that Love was something decided by God, and not to be meddled with by a mere king. For his beliefs and actions, he was imprisoned and sentenced to death, although it is uncertain whether he died before that sentence was carried out. On his dying day, he left a note to the jailer's daughter, with whom he had a deep connection, and signed it "from your Valentine".

Love is not something we chose. It is not the thing that clears all paths and makes all things good again. Love is often the source of great pain, as well as pleasure, and any number of cliches can be ascribed to love, there is some truth in all of it. We seldom choose to fall in love with someone, and if we do choose to, like an action, it seldom works. Who am I to tell someone they cannot love someone else? How can anyone dictate or judge something that has always been so holy that it is a major part of every religion? Love is a connection between that of God in everything. Emlightened people are in love with all creation. Children know it. They start life with a capacity to love and trust everyone and everything. Most horse riders know it. They develope a dee and real connection with their horse. Many pet owners know it. Most trackers know it. It is seldom possible to come to know a person, or a place, or an animal, or a tree, or a car, or a painting, or anything truly, without loving it a little. When you pour so much of yourself into something, you cannot help but love it in some way. There is a man who I feel priveleged to know, who once tracked a pair of wolves for two weeks. He saw their every action, and lived in their trail for two solid weeks, until he knew as much about them as could be discovered in an autopsy (which happened to them a short while later). A couple days after he came back from this trek, he and the others who were with him for those weeks felt that something was truly, deeply wrong. The next day, they discovered that the wolves had been shot for killing sheep. His connectoin with these animals he had come to know was so deep, that he had felt the moment they died. Other stories have been told of people knowinf for certain, without any actual evidence, that their loved one was dead. When we lose someone or something like that, the pain is a unique sort, and powerful. Still more powerful is the knowledge that we were part of something so great and good.

"To love another person is to see the face of God"