A wabi-sabi Valentine story

Imperfection worth fighting for

Feb 14, 2024

I pulled the Valentine’s Day card I bought for Felix last year out of my desk drawer this morning. I never gave it to him. The loving sentiment didn’t quite capture my feelings a year ago. Had I had one that read, “Go Eat Worms” (or a more colorful verb-noun combination), I would have left it on his pillow.

Happily Ever After?

I can’t remember what sparked the conflagration that soured our sweet hearts. It wasn’t our first big fight, and it wasn’t—won’t be—our last. We spent the evening in our neutral corners like boxers—eyes swollen, spitting blood, metaphorical fists coiled and cocked.

Maybe it was the pressure of the holiday. Maybe he was being an ass, or maybe it was me. I expect him to be perfect. I expect us to be perfect.

These high standards for an easy, comfortable relationship—an over-the-top romance —no doubt stem (at least, in part) from Hallmark marketing, old Disney movies, and the 1990s rom-coms I watched on so many single-girl Saturday nights.

I wanted it to be you

I tell people Felix and I met at the beach, which is true. But before we sized up one another in person, we circled each other online and exchanged text messages like “Hat hair is sexy!” that revealed our mutual awkwardness and our love for the mountains.

“I'm down at the beach with my guitar, on the wall at 14th Street," said the deep and sincere voice on the phone. "Come down here."

"Okay," I replied without hesitation.

I was going to the grocery store—no make-up, wet hair, hairy legs. But I'd primped and prepped for other blind dates, and the return on investment was always disappointing—the short guy with the smoker's cough, the guy with the moist palms and weak handshake, the twelve-year's-younger-than-me guy whose conversational repertoire ranged from "Hey, how's it going?" to "You have a great ass."

I wanted to meet someone who hated the performance as much as I did. I grabbed two ripe peaches from the kitchen counter and hoped that FelixA77's actual height matched his online profile claim of six feet, four.

"You must be Felix," I said to the legitimately tall man who'd watched me walk down the sidewalk. Behind us, gulls and children squealed in the late summer sun, and wet-suited surfers bobbed like seals in the gentle waves. He strummed a few chords on his guitar and pointed out his fast German car parked in front of us.

While we snacked on the peaches, juice dripping on the concrete seawall, I couldn't decide if he was odd or arrogant, but I felt drawn to his casual demeanor. The way he spoke and moved affirmed that we were just two people at the beach—no auditions, no scoring, no expectations. It was easy and comfortable.

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy

We've been together ever since. It was because of Felix that I returned to the outdoors I’d once loved. We drove to the White Mountains in New Hampshire or Vermont's Northeast Kingdom nearly every weekend, toting mountain bikes, backpacks, or skis.

After a year or two, at the end of a gorgeous fall day of biking, we made one last grinding climb to a hilltop spot called "Heaven’s Bench.” We dropped our mountain bikes in the grass and stretched our burning legs. The views were folk art landscapes in panorama.

And there Felix stood, tall and quiet in this divine place, staring out at coppery waves of ryegrass. My heart clenched, wanting to capture that moment in its sweet beating fist. I wrapped my arms around Felix’s waist, feeling at ease tucked under his chin.

“Let’s move here,” I said.

“Okay,” he said without hesitation. “We’d never get tired of this view.”

And for sixteen and a half years (so far), we haven’t.

You had me at hello

A day or two after that Valentine's bout, Felix and I came together in the center of the ring like always—always—arms raised in surrender and grateful for a draw.

I’d like to think we’re stronger for the battles. Like the traditional Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi, our relationship is a vase broken and repaired many times over— every crack soldered with gold. We embrace the imperfect.

Life isn’t a movie or a Hallmark card. Or, as Felix likes to say, “We’re human beings.”

I love him for this reminder.

So, for Valentine’s Day this year, I will sign the card with love from me and my wabi-sabi heart.

“There’s nobody I’d rather figure out life with than you.”