good & full

When I was a little girl, I manipulated the curves of a heart or turned them by varying degrees to create rabbits, cats, parts of a house and other pictures. Looking back, the only real thing that distinguished a bunny from a kitty was the cotton fluff used to make a tail for my hip-pity hoppers. Valentine’s Day was a flurry of red and pink construction paper and white doilies used to design cards for classmates, teachers and my grandmother whose birthday fell on that day. So many scoff at Valentine’s Day saying it causes anxiety. I get that…for some reason I rarely am in like or love on this day. I admit, I have purchased my own card a few times…I’m a sap, what can I say? As much as I am drawn to the round-ish mounds with a point, I don’t wear heart-shaped jewelry; have been known to wear it on my sleeve, exposed it in my tear drops, spoke it in a whisper as it broke.

For sure I have thought with my heart instead of my head, have been chided for having a soft heart. Never hard hearted, I have befriended the friendless, was told that I couldn’t save the world when I was a child and that seemed to be my quest. As an adult, I used to have the desire to go sit with people who were dining alone until I came to understand that we including me consciously choose to eat solo as it can be a respite. Truly, I should be a billionairess so I can spend my days dolling out dollars to the many well-deserving organizations that dedicate themselves to doing good for those in need (can you say that three times fast?). The gift of a feeling heart is one I cherish. It allows me to deeply experience not internalize things that don’t even register to those around me, makes me extend a helping hand without losing my sensibility. My heart tunes in to the off beat bathing me in composer notes and phrases that lift me up move me across the floor, stirring my primitive or proper. My heart opens my olfactory scrunching my nose with glee as I skip down filed memories lane…I can just taste the creamy mashed potatoes and crispy fried chicken spread on Sunday china at the smooth cherry wood table. My heart is the beat of my creative spirit, guides my hands when I am in collage goddess trance, opens my eclectic eye to things unseen at the precise second of reveal, does not always protect me from the cold-hearted or those with careless hearts. This year, I have learned that everyone is not so deserving of what my heart has to offer. You get what you give is now etched on my right ventricle. I have caringly detached focusing on more meaningful endeavors and those who mean more to me.

Over the years, I have used heart shaped objects in art projects designed to help others heal. I’ve often wondered how two bumps with a tip came to be named for the organ that beats in our chest and for some reason have amassed quite a few of them that are scattered throughout my home and office, think there is one in my car. Perhaps these tactile things I have made, received or bought since I was so very young were visual reminders that a good heart is a sign of life, their fullness a symbol for how life should be lived. Mine is full, is good, hope yours is too.

keep your peepers open! ®