Acting Naturally

I'd contrived to three-quarters forget that my favourite amongst Chaucer's early poems is set on the equivalent of this day several centuries ago: For this was on Seynt Valentynes Day, / Whan every foul cometh there to chese his make, / Of every kynde that men thynke may, And that so huge a noyse gan they make / that erthe, and eyr, and every lake / So ful was that unethe was there space / For me to stonde, so ful was al the place. Fortunately, I somehow remembered over the last weekend that Chaucer's happily baffled narrator got to witness the noisy Parlement of Foules at this time of year and duly read the poem ahead of today to get myself in the right frame of mind for enjoying and half-understanding what Nature, the vicaire of the almighty Lord has to teach us of our own nature and how we, like our feathered friends, are priked with pleasaunce, and fortunately so.

I don't think we've increased in understanding of the place of love and desire in human experience since Chaucer's time, but we're lucky to have the great poet to consult on such matters, if we but remember he's there. (And there's an excellent reading of the poem on YouTube to facilitate such consultation.)

And, of course, we're supremely lucky to have Nature working her magic upon us, even in age, such that a simple exchanging of cards on this day can mean so very much.