As a word, "occasionally" is ambiguous. Typically nowadays, it is used to mean "every once and a while." But the root of the word is much more specific than that. An "occasion" is a specific time period, and not just a time period, but an event, denoting activity and action. So, if you say, "I have a glass of wine on occasion," it is ambiguous between "I drink wine every so often" and "I drink wine for certain events." An "occasional piece of writing," however, shouldn't be confused with "every so often I write something." To say that this is an occasional piece is to say that I've taken the occasion to put into words something meaningful and prescient.
The occasion at hand is Valentine's Day, the day of love and expression. Certainly it will seem an obvious choice to take the occasion to express myself in the appropriate manner, but neither should that dampen the intention or the sentiment. Many people argue that Valentine's Day should be like any other day, or rather, every day should be like Valentine's Day. That we should take every day to rejoice in our love for another and not just limit ourselves to the hand full of sanctioned days of the year. I tend to agree, but again, that shouldn't prohibit us from taking certain days as extraordinary events, days upon which we can take on a certain Herculean task of egregious and exceptional performance. If everyday were Valentine's Day, if Valentine's Day was the norm, how would we notice particular feats of bountiful fancy? Valentine's Day should be neither anomalous nor irregular, but it should be fantastic and exorbitant.
This particular Valentine's Day has me in a particularly ecstatic state. It's been a long time since I've felt the pang's fervent ardor and passionate zeal. Love is like a harvest that grows in your heart. Even with the best of intentions it may not germinate. If you have the wrong seed or there's terrible weather, the scant chance we all have for real love is seen as the slim possibility it is for most. The sheer face of contingency shows us how lucky we are, and need to be. Finding love is like slash-and-burn farming—sometimes it's best to give up on what you have to find what you really want. And like the great African savannas, we learn that the heart sometimes grows best after a good burn. And that's where I find myself, cultivating an eminent seed in the growing pasture of my heart.
For me, this Valentine's Day more resembles Thanksgiving. I thank God and the Fates for my lavish harvest and I will forever be in their debt. You are a convalescent wind, tearing away the pain and anxiety. You are an incandescent sun of ebullient spirit, burning away the last vestiges of dread and sorrow, obliterating them in a conflagration of effervescent rapture. But more than all of that, you are my daimōn, my muse, my gateway to Eros, the plane of existence we hear fables of from enlightened and benighted fools who risk all for everything.
I'm in love.
Sweetly and sincerely,