tmbt: remembering my heart is broken
I woke up today and remembered. I smiled because I remembered you were here laying next to me and I could look into your eyes, a sweet reflexion of love, true love. And I sighed because I remembered that the night was filled with so many tears and certainly their shadow, if not the prop behind them, was still present. Then I looked out at the mist that is enveloping our little mountain on the edge of this city and remembered how much I love the shaded beauty of life.
And now, I think I remember that I have a broken heart.
The forgetting was so easy. The elation of chains clipped, of bathing in inspiration from humans to humans, of planning the adventure, of walking away from the day to day reminders of disappointment and frustrations, of walking towards what would surely be better – the sea, this freedom, that love that eluded me so long. And in the forgetting, I floated and so many drew near to the float, even. For we all in some way wish also to forget. And the forgetting feels clean and free and open and light. And there is nothing wrong with the forgetting that present moment joy brings, even if it brings itself again and again for months. But in last couple of weeks, an unshakable handful of sand in my panties, unsleepable peas under the sheets, untenable tension in my jaw has reminded me of something, something so sweet and connecting, so dear and vulnerable, though it feels so dark and heavy, so sad and hopeless. I remember now. My heart is broken.
And in this broken heart lives a universe’s-wide view of every moment of loss and weariness on the shoulders of you, seeping down to the bones of the toes of you. And in this broken heart lie little pieces of the wall that once tried so hard to be fortified, and if once, then a thousand times, to no avail. No avail.
And in this broken heart lives a light, warm and soft and easy to read by, easy to look into, easy to rose the cheeks and plump the freckles with, easy to breathe in. And the light shines out through the cracks and pulls in the light from you getting out through your own cracks and it is a happy light. Happy for the opportunity.
And even though the gate of this walk is clumsy and forgetful and too happy at times and too sad at times and too every living imaginable something sometimes, it is broken and whole all at once. And it is joy. And it has a song. And it is hear, remembered and beautiful. So very beautiful.
And the job? Remember to remember… lest the forgetting cloak the beauty. Lest the search waste the light. Lest the search waste the beautiful, warm, reading, sunning light. The most beautiful thing and the most beautiful point.
Image is of rock lamps by Andre Cazenave.