Thousands of poems have been written about it, millions of songs sung in its honor and atrocities committed in its name. Love. The intangible, irresponsible, irrepressible sensation that drives us to the heights of the human capacity for nobility and beauty, while simultaneously dragging us down into the darkest pits of despair imaginable.

There are many languages to love. From the woman who feels loved when the garbage is taken out, to the teenager who just wants to be reassured that yes, happiness can be found in a warm embrace. I have struggled through my marriage to not only learn the language of love that my wife receives and gives, but to become a master at it.

To really become a creator of the right kind of love for that person closest to you, the one to whom you have given permission to not only fulfill you, but wound you deeply, is one of life's greatest challenges, and quixotically, greatest pleasures I believe life can provide.

Heather, my wife, is pregnant with our second child and it is only now that I see the true value of learning to love your wife or husband well. It isn't grandiose gestures, accomplishments in the field of the marital arts or expensive presents. Its holding your wife's hand as she is emptying the contents of her stomach, again.

It is, without pretext, going back out into the night one more time, even though you are so tired you can't even begin to see how you will do it, to get her something to drink and something sweet to eat. It is not only putting yourself after her but losing sight completely, if even for only a moment, that you even matter.

The poets were right to sing its praises, it is a transformational emotion. One that can so thoroughly infuse itself into your very being, that you become an embodiment of love radiating it to all that come into contact with you.

Or at least that is what I hope for. It hasn't happened yet. There is always tomorrow.