mystery

Tonight I want to write from my heart. I want to become alive with the mystery of my own heart. It’s strange how ones heart can be their closest companion as well as their greatest stranger. I feel I’ve spent so much of my life trying to become a friend of my own heart. How can something so near to one be so far away as well?

How can the sky be flush against my skin, hugging my being on every side, wrapping itself around me as a waterfall of invisible molecules, and yet seem so distant? I find myself looking heavenwards, my arms reaching, wanting to somehow embrace the vast breath of air far above me and feeling as though it is completely unreachable, completely untouchable. Little realizing that I am not only touching it, but am actually consuming it with every breath I take, with every one of my movements. It’s constantly dancing around me, flowing as a current of water over rocks and broken trees, the solidity of my being merging and colliding with it’s vulnerability. And the air fills me, the fusion of oxygen and blood creating new life within the darkness of my being.

I love the pulsing of my heart. I hold my breath quiet, stilling any movement from my body and I begin to listen. And there it always is. The methodical swishing of fluid in and out of my ears, the ever-so-slight bounce of my thumbs as the blood rushes in and out of veins. The existence of a pulse always means the existence of life. Without my pulse my body would hold no life. Without my heart regulating the currents of blood rushing through my being, I would simply cease to exist.

My physical heart speaks to me in rhythm. But the invisible part of my heart speaks to me in words. It touches me with emotions. It warns me, cautions me. It laughs, and sings. It weeps and heaves. It dreams. And sometimes it even seems to deceive me. The perfect stranger. The perfect friend. The perfect mystery.