Monday, August 3, 2020
Among the early expectations in life is that we pick favorites; favorite food, favorite color, favorite number, favorite toy, favorite animal. Just the other day a friend of mine asked me, for the most generous of reasons, what my favorite animal is, and though in all the five decades of intervening years I have well learned to play the game, deep down I am no more equipped to answer such a question than I was when asked at age five what my favorite color is.
I love yellow.
But red is also wonderful.
And purple and green.
Oh my goodness blue.
A couple days ago what was my favorite animal?
I'm wild about opossums lately.
Bees too. Octopus, giraffes, tigers.
Yeah, I love tigers and I love elephants, and i sort of have a thing for turkeys.
Killer whales and butterflies.
Wolves naturally, and foxes too.
Did I mention giraffes? How about owls? Owls and orangutans and raccoons and hawks and boa constrictors, though it might just be that one boa constrictor, David of Oakland.
Oh I can play the game if I have to. My favorite fruit? I am team cherry! But deep down I know that at any excellent blood orange, or raspberry, pineapple or passion fruit, blueberry or apricot, my allegiance is shot. Each thing is inimitable. Excellence is all excellence. Wonder cannot negate other wonders. Favorite is a game.
But oh, hold up Horatio.
There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Or, um, my philosophy. No rule can ever seem to lock the door. And all the tinpot philosophy of the start of this little screed is as nothing to the truth:
For 29 years now I have lived in Minnesota with my very favorite person in the Universe.
No one else ever has, or ever will, come close.