My heart. It’s a complicated place. It’s a tricky place. Scary. Even to myself.
I’m afraid to use it, afraid to free it, afraid to break it. It’s tender. Tender in more than one way. It’s sensitive and afraid. It’s soft and fragile. It’s been through some hard times. It’s also tender in the giving-not-taking way. It gives everything, and fast. Too fast, usually.
Books might say hearts are for pumping blood. I say they’re pumping joy and pain. And which one depends on luck. Good luck, which some people have, or bum luck, which I seem to possess. And hearts can hide as well as a kid afraid of a storm. My heart hid for a long time. I didn’t realize it was gone until I needed to use it again. When I realized it wasn’t where I’d left it, I went searching. Behind the couch, in the closet, under the bed. I found it, but it didn’t want to come out. I understood. I didn’t always want to come out, either. Especially when I felt safe. I let it hide there for awhile. I tried not to notice that I was experiencing feelings that required my heart. But they got too big. After awhile I had to decide if I was going to keep turning away from the feelings or coax my heart out of its hidey-hole.
The sweet talking proved successful, but it took a good deal of sugar. Out my heart came, timidly, slowly. Looked around. Quickly darted its eyes back to the floor. Put on dark glasses so the windows to the soul were safely veiled. Before long, it felt almost as safe as the hidey-hole. Eyes were confident again. Veil gone.
And, nearly following, the unavoidable consequence of sharing: pain.
Too much. Too comfortable. Too safe. And then it hurts again. “Why?” it cries, in desperation. Eyes still confidently forward, but wet. Hurt. Feeling, still, but wishing for anything but feeling. On the outside, it tells itself it’s ready to go back in hiding. But really, it still feels and doesn’t know how to stop. “Who taught me to feel again?” it asks, exasperated. “Why did I trust that voice?”
It holds its head in its hands as it slowly makes its way back to its hiding place. The hardest thing was turning off the hope. It looks back once more, peering out, one last look for a glimpse of hope. Seeing nothing, it hangs its head and closes the hidey-hole door. Locked away again.
Locked away doesn’t make my heart full. It doesn’t mend the pain. But it keeps it safe, and in time, it will be numb again. The way it was before I remembered how to feel again. I’m going to forget. Soon. I hope it’s tomorrow.
