Right now, the heart stones are being interpreted rather literally. My heart's beating has become so irregular (it's had a skip that would show up occasionally for almost as long as I can remember) that I'd guess it's at least half the time. (And, yes, I have an appointment with a cardiologist on Friday.) But what this has made me aware of is how much I fear not being "myself," mostly healthy and able to do whatever I want. This fear is not only of aging and physical decline, but also of having to live in some reduced way (a possibility with heart conditions), as my father did after a stroke and then the cancer that finally killed him.
Others write eloquently about aging, and I'm grateful to read their perspectives, and to be reminded of my gratitude for what I have now.
But it is a practice not to "borrow trouble," to let "tomorrow take care of itself," and all those cliches that serve to remind us of what we know in our hearts to be true.
Those two imperfectly shaped hearts, one pink, one grey, both exist as different aspects of the same thing, just as my shadow is part of me. That shadow grew large and ominous as my granddaughter visited and I was confronted with aspects of my child-self I wasn't proud of, the child that learned to be hard and sarcastic, the one who shielded herself from her sensitive nature by pretending not to care, who would tauntingly say, "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me," knowing I was lying, knowing that I'd choose broken bones any day. Eight was barely different from fifty-eight for a time as I looked down the well and felt as if I were falling in.
All the granddaughter seemed to want was the familiarity of home; she was homesick. And her grandmother? The same----comfort, stability, beauty, strength, freedom. Finding that within oneself, within the time and place we find ourselves, is no mean trick, and my own failures can become comical in their momentary drama ("You want to mock me? Let me mock you and see how you feel!"), though sadness prevails. I want to love this imperfect self, this whole self, but my tendency is still to turn her away with disappointment, to point the finger away from myself, to try to forget that it is I who mocks myself while purporting to work for wholeness.
It's not fun to catch yourself lying to yourself.
