I lay in bed with a hand on my chest, feeling the almost rhythmic beat of my heart (I’ve had a slight, non-harmful arrhythmia, since my early 20s). I listen to the soft pounding coming from inside of me, a change from the normal external tuning.
I feel like my heart is trying to speak to me, but it’s coming through in morse code, or perhaps an ancient language that I once understood, but now has long forgotten.
“What are you trying to tell me?”, I ask and plead at the same time.
My heart just keeps beating. Perhaps a little quicker and louder now, in response to my desperation.
While my mind believes it always has all the answers, a suspicious part of it believes my heart holds a secret. I suspect that once the secret is revealed, it will put an end to all my mind’s suffering and finally quell its endless thirst to know everything. Or at least, this is a lie my mind tells itself, because it really just wants love and safety, but that sounds too vulnerable, too childlike to admit.
The paradox is that I know my heart does hold the key, but my demand that it speak in a language I can understand and fix everything I believe is wrong is exactly what closed the pathway between my mind and heart. I suppose we could also call it fear, which I can feel in the gentle constriction of my neck.
I breathe, realizing I’m in a state of anxiety again. It always sneaks up on me, without my knowing. It’s a learned response to not trust. Not trust in myself, in light, in Love. My anxiety never feels safe. But I’m learning that perhaps, fear is the lie.
I remind myself to relax. That all is well. I am safe in my bed and hear my dog’s sleepy breathing close to me.
I put down my pen and turn off my lamp. I know my heart will speak when it is ready, when I am quiet enough to hear it.
***
The next day as I’m driving, I hear my heart simply say, “I’m right here.”
A Dog and Her Girl 