dearheart

Today I went to a writing workshop, at Callanish, and this quote was the prompt. Below is how I responded.

“In undertaking a spiritual life, what matters is simple: We must make certain that our path is connected with our heart” -Jack Kornfield

I’m handing her my heart. She’s keeping it safe for now, but we’ve only met once- no, twice. She seems right. She feels right. We feel in synch. Like a fit. But hand her my heart isn’t easy. I was supposed to hold my own heart, beneath my own breasts, in my own body as it always was.

But my heart broke. The cancer shattered what was. I need her help now, to put my heart back together again. I am angry I need her help, I am angry I am broken. I am grateful we found each other in this world of Craigslist missed connections. And so we venture, into what seems impossible, together into what is.

They said it wasn’t a good time, they said we weren’t ready, they said to be responsible. Time has shifted now. Waiting seems pointless, timeless and timelines produce only deep feelings of ambivalence.

She was surprised when I told her I needed everything, and that I needed everything now. She was surprised when I told her how I feel everything has sped up, that clocks feel like they are spinning meaninglessly, that I feel so much more urgency now to do, to feel, to be, now. I’m afraid if I don’t get it now, it may never manifest. She thought I’d want to slow down, smell the roses or something. I like roses, but I want them together with babies and book deal and weekend hikes and yoga and professor jobs and friends celebrating and song writing and ukelele class and coffee in the morning.

I want to gather time and hold it, I want to fill my basket until it is overflowing, I want to hold all the clocks in my arms and drop them, slowly, one at a time, into the ocean, and I want them to sink to the bottom of the sea, and I want a mermaid in a couple hundred years to happen upon them while swimming and wonder if the clock graveyard was purposeful.

But more than that, I want a nene. Un bodoque. And so we twist time, and with her, I step into a warped land, a futuristic reality where they store embryos on ice for decades at a time, where my cells can grow into a human inside of a body that’s never known mine, where I am disciplined every night with an octagonal white pill, one that I pop out of silver backing and wash down with water from the bathroom sink. What power, that tiny white pill. That pill, that forces my heart outside of me, that makes my body inhospitable for my own heart, that requires I trust her, know her, and ultimately, that I allow her to help me.

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