Posts tagged ‘loss’

December 24, 2013

Hearts

by lisa st john

Religious faith . . . erodes compassion. Thoughts like, “this might be all part of God’s plan,” or “there are no accidents in life,” . . . these ideas are not only stupid, they are extraordinarily callous. They are nothing more than a childish refusal to connect with the suffering of other human beings. It is time to grow up and let our hearts break . . . .” –Sam Harris

Write soon and let me know how your heart is,” she wrote on the Christmas card.

 

How is your heart?” someone else asked.

“When I had that panic attack and got sent to the hospital, the E.K.G. I had was –“

No, no. Your HEART,” she said, holding her hand over her breast like she was pledging.

 

 

I don’t know how my heart (anatomical or otherwise) is … or isn’t. ? “BEING: That which exists, or is real (unchanging reality). Gotta love the “or” in this definition.

The problem with living in my head* is that I know my mate is gone. This knowledge, however, does not do much for my heart.

The problem with being a skeptic (sane-ish person) is that I cannot pretend to believe in spirits or ghosts or messages from beyond. Not that my love would send me a message—it was more Kent’s style to write it on a bar napkin and send it in a bottle. And even though I know the Coriolis Effect does not change the direction in which water drains in the northern versus the southern hemisphere, I still feel like I am going the wrong way around the earth—always just missing the spot that tells me where I am.

The problem with technology is that I could hear him again on Around the World Radio and I just don’t have the eggs to do it…yet.

The problem with being alone is that I am not. I am just without.

 

*“There’s something curious about professors . . . they live in their heads.” -Sir Ken Robinson

 

A Short Poem for My Heart”

I will take irony over cruelty,
and I will bear the heartbeat of remembering you always.

But I am old again, and
halos around the moon used to be beauty—not clouds.

I could stir this into something other than a restlessness,
but I am no chef. 

I will make mounds of my sorrow and hide them in plain sight.

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