Friday Gratitude, Friday the 13th, and a Little Love

I am so grateful that it’s Friday.

My tour yesterday seemed to go exceptionally well. I could feel the energy in the room, the attentiveness, the thoughtful questions. When the university’s social media featured the tour afterward, it felt like a quiet affirmation that the work we do matters. Moments like that make the preparation and effort worthwhile.

One thing I’ve learned about myself over the years is that I can usually immerse myself in something like a tour and push a migraine to the back of my mind. Adrenaline and focus carry me through. The problem is what happens afterward. When the event ends and things go back to normal, I tend to crash—and the migraine comes roaring back, worse than before. That’s exactly what happened yesterday. I ended up going home and going straight to bed, letting my body do what it needed to do.

Thankfully, I’m feeling better this morning and can take it easy while I work from home. I’m grateful for that flexibility.

And then there’s the calendar: today is Friday the 13th.

I’ve always had a touch of triskaidekaphobia—the irrational fear of the number 13. My paternal grandmother was wonderfully superstitious, and she passed more than a few of those notions down to me. Not black cats—Isabella would never allow that—but other things.

She was adamant that if you were walking with someone and the two of you came to a post, a tree, or any obstacle, you must not split and pass on opposite sides. If you did, you had to go back and pass on the same side, or something terrible might happen. If you killed a snake, it had to be draped over a fence to guarantee rain. And the strangest superstition of all: if you sneezed at the dinner table, you had to get up and walk to the door before you could sit back down—otherwise, a family member would die. More than once, I pushed my chair back, walked solemnly to the back door, touched it, and returned to my plate before I could resume eating.

Looking back, I smile. Those rituals were strange, yes—but they were also part of her world, her way of trying to exert a little order over an unpredictable life.

Interestingly, my mother and her mother both considered 13 to be lucky—after all, they were both born on the 13th. Maybe the number isn’t so ominous after all. Maybe it’s simply a reminder of the women who shaped me.

Hopefully, today will be entirely uneventful.

And since today is Friday, February 13th, that means tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I want to send my love out to everyone who reads this blog. I keep writing each day not only for myself, but also for you. Your quiet presence, your comments, your encouragement—they matter more than you know.

So wherever you are, and whatever tomorrow looks like for you, know that you are appreciated.

Happy Valentine’s Day. ❤️

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Fingers Crossed

This is going to be a short one.

I woke up again in the middle of the night with a migraine. I was able to take some medicine and get back to sleep, but when I woke up this morning, it was still there—lingering and stubborn. My throat is still sore too, so I made a cup of tea with honey to try to soothe it before heading out.

If I didn’t have two important things to take care of at work today—things I can’t really hand off to anyone else—I would probably call in sick. I’ll give my VIP tour first thing this morning and finish a few preparations for next week’s program. After that, if I’m still not feeling better, I’ll head home and rest.

I’m hoping the migraine eases as the morning goes on. Fingers crossed that everything goes as planned—and that if I need to leave once the priority work is done, I can do so without a problem.

Here’s hoping for a gentle day. 🤞

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Finding My Voice

I woke up in the middle of the night with a migraine—something that rarely happens. I was able to fall back asleep, but the headache lingered into the morning. On top of that, my throat feels raw and sore, and yesterday my voice wasn’t very strong. I kept feeling like I couldn’t quite project at a normal volume. I’m drinking some hot tea this morning in hopes of soothing my throat and giving my voice a little help. I’m hoping whatever this is passes quickly.

I have a follow-up dentist appointment this afternoon for the root canal I had last month, and I’m not putting that off. More importantly, tomorrow morning I’m giving a VIP tour of the museum. My guest is a nationally known political figure—no, not Bernie—but someone a bit more controversial.

It’s encouraging to know the university asked me to lead the tour. After more than ten years of giving tours at the museum, I should be able to handle it. I’ve led generals and admirals (both U.S. and international), diplomats, and politicians through our galleries. Years ago, a visit like this might have made me nervous. Not anymore. I know the collection. I know the stories. And honestly, I look forward to these opportunities.

Now I just need my voice to cooperate so I can give the kind of tour they’re expecting.

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Love Song for Love Songs

Love Song for Love Songs

By Rafael Campo 

A golden age of love songs and we still

can’t get it right. Does your kiss really taste

like butter cream? To me, the moon’s bright face

was neither like a pizza pie nor full;

the Beguine began, but my eyelid twitched.

“No more I love you’s,” someone else assured

us, pouring out her heart, in love (of course)—

what bothers me the most is that high-pitched,

undone whine of “Why am I so alone?”

Such rueful misery is closer to

the truth, but once you turn the lamp down low,

you must admit that he is still the one,

and baby, baby he makes you so dumb

you sing in the shower at the top of your lungs.

————

Here we are, edging toward Valentine’s Day—cards already in the stores, playlists full of old love songs, and that familiar pressure to feel something cinematic. For queer folks especially, love has often arrived through borrowed lyrics and secondhand metaphors. We learned the language of romance from straight pop songs and classic standards that never quite named us, yet somehow still found their way into our hearts. This week feels like a good moment to sit with a poem that knows that tension well: the joy of love songs, and the gentle skepticism that comes with actually living love.

————

About the Poem

“Love Song for Love Songs” is a poem that both adores and distrusts the clichés of romance. Campo opens by acknowledging the abundance of love songs—a golden age—and immediately undercuts them. The metaphors we’ve been fed (“pizza pie,” “butter cream,” the perfect moon) feel exaggerated, even a little silly, when held up against real experience. Love, the poem suggests, is rarely that tidy or sweet.

What replaces those polished metaphors is something messier and more honest: loneliness, self-doubt, the ache behind the question “Why am I so alone?” Campo admits that this rueful misery may be closer to the truth than any glossy refrain. And yet—and this is the poem’s quiet triumph—love still sneaks in. Lower the lights. Admit that he is still the one. Admit how foolish and undone love can make you.

The final image is perfect in its ordinariness: singing in the shower, loudly and without shame. Not because love has become poetic or profound, but because it has made you human, ridiculous, and alive. For LGBTQ+ readers, that feels especially resonant. Our love stories have often been private, improvised, or half-hidden, but the joy—unguarded and a little dumb—rings just as true.

————

About the Poet

Rafael Campo is an American poet and physician whose work frequently explores the intersections of the body, illness, desire, and identity. Openly gay, Campo has written with remarkable clarity about queer love, vulnerability, and the ways language both reveals and conceals truth. His poetry often blends pop culture, medicine, and intimate emotional insight, making space for tenderness without sentimentality.

Campo’s voice is especially important in LGBTQ+ literature because it refuses grandiosity. Instead, it honors the small, lived moments—awkwardness, doubt, pleasure—that make love real. In poems like this one, he reminds us that even if love songs get it wrong, love itself still finds a way to be sung.

As Valentine’s Day approaches, this poem feels like permission: permission to roll your eyes at the clichés, to acknowledge the loneliness, and still—maybe especially still—to sing.

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Not Quite Awake Yet

It was so hard to get up this morning. I went to bed on time and didn’t wake up during the night, but it still felt like I needed a few more hours of sleep. Maybe it’s because I had to go to work, or maybe it’s because it’s –7 degrees outside and the bed felt especially safe and warm.

Some mornings just carry that extra weight—the kind where your body is awake before your spirit has caught up. I know I’ll make it through the day. I have a meeting this afternoon that I can’t miss or reschedule, and responsibilities have a way of pulling us forward even when we’d rather stay still for a little while longer.

At some point I’ll feel more awake. Coffee and the morning news will come first, easing me into the day, and then a hot shower before getting ready for work. It doesn’t all have to happen at once.

I hope everyone has a gentle start to their week and finds small moments of warmth—whether that’s a hot drink, a quiet moment, or just the reassurance that we don’t have to be fully “on” right away.

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