An Unauthorized Autobiography of a Heart
Its first beat was the strongest. That beginning thump thwacked powerful, a sign of existence. The heart pumped hard, modulating millions more measures to the rhythm of life in numbered beats.
It's a signal of God's Grace; that meter, the unmerited gift of Strength and Love and Life.
This heart may have been born broken. Pieces might have been missing. Other pieces were pierced inside an abusive upbringing or played with by punishing bullies before more heart parts bust or were brushed aside from any functioning worthy to a heart.
That it functions at all in present time is a Miracle.
Hearts need sustenance. Hearts meet many other hearts. No two are alike. No other heartstrings strum exactly the same way. The pumping organs need nourishment, nurturing, careful consideration, a gentle touch and truth. Hearts hear Truth. No heart survives lies.
A ripped heart expects the gentlest of regard. It requires extraordinary kindness. Compassion. Sincerity. A salve brought by the gentlest soul to envelop the wounded heart's soft scar tissue so as not to damage the tiny intact piece that made it through Hell.
A heart is supposed to have discernment. A whole healthy heart has enough room in its four chambers for Judgment and Love, Freedom and Pleasure, while still beating gallons of blood through its wide open arteries. There is extra room available for friends or foes, unqualified joy, unknown woes.
A heart knows. It knows things that the brain hasn't thought of yet. When in close intimate range with another heart, a heart always knows what that other heart is thinking, what it's aiming for. But if a heart is tattered, first by design, then by damnation, there is not much room for margin of error. There is no room for a targeted attack.
At a young age, this heart lost the love of its life. Maybe that's when a hole happened. The heart's beloved went to the hospital with a massive headache and his head exploded while there in the emergency room. He never came home.
His death brought an acute awareness into the heart that it knew no name for. It simply knew. It imagined its own ending in a similar way. The heart never knew it had a hole, never knew it was defective.
It always knew that it belonged to a highly sensitive person. It sensed her father's heart when it faded to full stop and he died; felt it from 750 miles away. There is no explanation for that. The heart knew when it won a major competition before the winner was announced. It knew many friends from across crowds before ever meeting them. It knew good things and bad things and in-between things throughout an extraordinary life.
Music or playing piano made the heart swell. It sang while sailing the seven seas for decades, watching the world and sleeping under stars on a balcony outside a fancy stateroom. Ice skating, horses, dance, romance, writing – many endeavors encouraged Heart's spirit to fly so free. Warmhearted memories shuffle full gratefulness. Despite being broken, the heart beats for those Blessings.
Many people with holes in their hearts, and I do mean real leakage, don't live long – if at all. A heart is the ignitable engine in a body. If it's broken, no movement, no forward momentum. The machine won't go. The human vehicle is heart controlled.
This heart often hurt. It believed it was overly sensitive, too soft. Nobody discovered the little hole in it until a little over a year ago, when in the hospital with an unrelated complaint, the soul stayed a week and doctors looked under the hood where the derelict heart hid behind other broken bits.
A heart that had been crushed, pummeled, beat down, torn apart, punished, trampled, and humiliated thousands of times. It still beat, with a hole in it, that could someday blow apart and end a life.
The heart thinks about that sometimes. Will it be today? How about when fired up in anger? Or the next “I don't care” cold human heart harms it. Will it be sudden? Will it know? Anthony Bourdain said, “The essence of Cool is not giving a fuck,” so the pump pushes forward, acting normal, knowing it's got a hole. It feels surges of forced flow, a skipped beat, a different cadence.
This is not a poetic hole of the heart. No metrical ticker talk. This loving heart is not a lyrical laugh. It's not functioning at full capacity. There is evidence of an “event” – doctor lingo for an earlier attack, maybe as long as 20 years ago, that left significant scar tissue covering that very dead part of this heart. There's a small hole. It leaks a little. It may have always been there or may have resulted from whatever happened that heart never knew about. Nobody knows. The heart doesn't want medicine. It doesn't want a monitor or any number of mechanical medicinal maybes.
It's come so far. A heart that's taken the biggest beatings life has to offer, again and again, because the piece that works is the trusting piece. Isn't that the gigantic joke? The only part of this heart that works accurately is the tiny right side sliver that sieves everybody's bullshit through and slots what's true.
It's meant as protection. That's God's Grace. If a manipulative touch slides by, it could kill the heart. It's not strong enough for debris that would hurt me. Recently, the heart took a risk, a leap of faith, breaking free to touch another heart that it crucially wanted to heal.
Heart was scared. Heart did its part. It stepped out, followed the script, relied on another to represent in return. He did not. Then the heart thumped, petrified with no pretense. Preemptively afraid. The heart had been set up for failure. Then came panic. What was it thinking? A gift? A dream? A curse? It was thinking the best things, the happiest things, and also the loneliest things in the world.
The other heart was frightened too. All of a sudden incoherent heart with what abruptly felt like a golfball sized hole didn't know why, being a benevolent heart with a tiny hole in it, incapable of wounding anyone. But his internal organ was beating furiously. Why? The hurt heart knew what his heart was thinking and it made the bosom beat differently. The brave pumping hole puffed open. It was out of its league and really, really scared.
It's a gift. Anticipatory anxiety. A dream. Focus on the heartbeats. Breathe. Close your eyes and listen within. Try not to think about it. Heart whispered wildly.
The heart conceives it failed. Though right there together, two terrified hearts clinging close, the distance between them broke its Spirit.
His arms surrounded and protected the heart. The hole diminished, its jagged edges sealing shut. It's the most beautiful feeling, that hug of healing. When his arms fell away, the hole opened again, exposing itself for incoming cruelty that could come.
It is so humbling ... that hard-working heart, the unconditional Love that it gives away.
It's a heart that remembers arms that held and protected it. It's a heart that remembers and appeals for the other startled heart that held it close, which temporarily sealed tight a hole of unstoppable loss. It's a heart that remembers his warmth and want and laughs, and being accidentally afraid.
Fantasies are only fantastic in their imaginings. Only in the planning. Once realized, the dream is over. There is no measuring up to a false fantasy. The heart fell short of his illusion and expectations and a heart took a hard hit.
The whisper. It hears it. A heart that knows it's been blessed. It also knows that being so fragile has cost it a toll that it cannot afford to fund.
A whole heart has only so long before it stops. A half heart still beats for a whole life. A heart with a leaking hole spills out its life-force and falls asleep into the arms of God.
Only a hardened heart goes on and on and on – without looking back, without a care in the world about who it crashes into, about how its hardness, haphazard humor, humiliation, and sharp practice hurts other hearts.
There might be a “throwdown”, a contest, a conquest, uncomfortable unrest, but we cannot dictate consequences to the nucleus of another person. A heart that doesn't trust isn't trustworthy. A heart that chicaneries will hammer any heart it encounters. It will chisel away pieces. A lonely heart will steal heartbeats from other hearts.
The heart said YES. That little tiny piece that still works well wanted to be touched. The piece that leaks wanted a Fix-it. An impossibility, that's what the weakened heart wanted.
I stood by and watched and said nothing. I allowed it to happen, even as I knew. I wish I didn't know. My heart wishes I wouldn't watch so hard.
Some hearts are hardened, cold and cruel and collect other hearts to hold hostage. They take them for a collection – like hearts on a shelf, non-beating anymore – just stone souvenirs of conquests. Maybe their own hearts were once broken too, now it's all they can do. Maybe they're bored. Maybe their hearts habitually function in false promises. Maybe that's how they have fun.
I trust because I am trustworthy. He mistrusted me and I ignored that blinding glimpse of obvious. Heart took a leap of faith for reasons indiscernible to me. It screamed: Please Stop! I did not.
The best part is always the beginning, before the beginnings ... when hearts meet, aflutter, a bit afraid, in full communion and friendship after a long wait in wonderment, wild with anticipation, and wrapping strapping arms that provide ageless protection.
The heart rests. It listens for his heartbeat. It misses hearing him … from before the beginning, until the very end.
The heart temporarily forgot a favorite passage from Proverbs 4.23: Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.
This unauthorized autobiography of a heart, my heart, is not a lament – rather a tribute to another particular and very uncommon heart. I hold His heart inside mine, and as promised, will cherish it.
Just Another Lori Story
