My Heart’s Map.

The Map of My Heart is as old as I am, but like me, it is a work in progress. Let’s be honest, the details really are of no interest to anyone else, except its owner. It has always been around: the idea, the possibility, hovering just out of my reach at first. No paper quite able to capture the fine veined and veiled lines. No pencils of just the right hue…not that I was sure what that hue could possibly be.

Then one day, paper of exactly the right colour and texture floated in through my window. “Writing for Wellbeing”, it cryptically stated, and landed on my desk. I recognised it immediately, and that is the paper I have drawn my map on. Under a hitherto stranger’s skilful and guiding hand, one never critical of the pens I chose, and always enthusiastic even when the colours clashed…I was able to bring the details of my heart into focus. Create a map covered with the story of my life. A map that anchors my past and guides me into the future.

The lines at first were tentative, firming up with practice. Exploding into colour as I reached for a variety of unaccustomed tints and gained confidence with the outcome. I wear this heart on my sleeve now and occasionally a stranger brushing by smudges it or tears a corner off. But I stick it back together and relish the contentment it brings my life.

THANK YOU HEATHER BLAKEY.

Mapping My Heart

I imagine my heart is a mountainous place, much like the Blue Ridge I love. The hills are rolling up and down, some with deep valleys and some just shallow coves. They aren’t craggy mountains, they have been worn smooth by time. In its most alive seasons, my heart is full of color- brights and deeps. In the resting time, maybe the dark time, my heart is silent. I’d rather be in the alive time, but I realize that the resting time is necessary for me to live. All part of the cycle.

My heart is green in the summer, juicy and vibrant, even the hard parts become beautiful, scars growing over the bad places carved out over the years. Little caves in the mountains house the skeletons of my life, the ones I don’t want to see but have trouble letting go of. Those skeletons are buried, but sometimes when I am trekking through my heart, I stumble across a sharp bone and cut myself. It would probably be easier if I got rid of the bones in the rivers of my heart, let the water carry them away, but then how would I remember what the skeleton taught me when it was a living thing? Would I forget the lesson, the feeling of each scar created?

To get to the high parts of the mountains, the scenic vistas, I have to climb, sometimes hard, sometimes in and out of the caves. But it is so worth it- the high parts. From the top I can see the happiest days in the past, the joyous days to the future, and then parts of my heart that make the climb a requirement on the bad days.When the trekking is hard, I cling to trees for my life, wishing that I could have just stayed at the bottom, hiding in the lushness. Sometimes I let others trek with me through my heart- because I want them to or because I need their help along the way. But mostly I trek along, because I don’t want them to get hurt in the caves or slide down the mountains as I look on helplessly. It’s a dedicated climber that can make it through the forest to the top of the mountains of my heart.

The life breathes all around me, growing my heart,even as the craggy pieces of a skeleton may poke me along the way.

I like to think my heart is growing, breathing, becoming vibrant and then sleeping as the seasons do. I need those dead things to make the growth happen. Without death, life will not continue.

Walls

Day by day
brick by brick
a wall was created
that enclosed my heart

Night by night
brick by brick
I mourned the loss
of my innocence

Day into night
night into day
the wall came down
to create a bridge

Heart Map

Prompt: Make a map of your heart as proof of identity so that you may pass through the gates into the House of the Serpents.

I have no heart to speak of, my heart is small, soon I will be heartless.
Piece after piece it has been given away, carried off, pulled from its scaffolding, torn away, nerves still attached. Each one a cable through which messages propagate or not, from giver to taker down through the years and back again. When I was young and stingy, each piece was small and subject to much debate. I remember giving such a morsel to a teacher, who placed it on her desk among the others, where it sat neglected until I stole it back at the end of term without her even noticing. I took it home and gave it to my dog, and he cherished it and gave me most of his in return…..

………..My donkey has no name, at least it is kept from me. It took a while, but finally I figured it out….
Like this beast I have no true identity. Through all these years, my inner voice, checked from free expression. Not loss of identity, rather individuality never found. Never time, it was not a priority. Oh sure, I carved out a place in society by relinquishing ‘frivolous’ pleasures to concentrate on studies, career, livelihood, and the needs and preferences of others. One-by one, the choices that mold a unique persona have been stripped away.
One day, not very long ago, I awoke in the realization that my whole lifetime could pass in personal anonymity. Somehow, I managed to find a remnant of myself, seized upon it and asked, “What would you wish to do, more than anything else in the world?”
The answer came swiftly and I was shocked: “To learn to write expressively.”
I never would have guessed it in a thousand years.
How I came to find Soul Food, this animal, and this pathway is an unfolded mystery.
Perhaps I am doomed to linger at the gate forever.

Patience and Sox

“She’s gone!”
“Where?”

The donkey and the dog looked at each other in alarm.
“You don;t think……..?”

Patience looked out to sea where a ship was disappearing into the distance. Sox nodded.
“Just like that. Who’d have thought it?”

The two animals stood, folornly, surveying what had been their campsite.
“S’psose this is the end of our quest.”

Patience let her head droop a little, and Sox licked the tear that had fallen down the donkey’s muzzle. The animals stood until the ship had completely vanished and turned into the forest.
“Where now?” asked Sox, breathelessly returning from chasing a squirrel. The donkey did not reply but continued to plod miserably onwards. They made slow progress, the woods seemed to grow thicker and thicker around them, and several times they had to turn back and retrace their steps to regain the path.

Several hours later, a raven flew overhead and called out to them to follow him. He would help them find food and water. Never have a donkey and a dog been more grateful to see a raven. Patience brayed with delight and Sox ran around, chasing her tail in joy.

The two animals came into a clearing where another donkey was having ….bagels???
“Evening,” muttered the donkey, spitting crumbs in their direction.
“Oh good evening,” said Patience, politely.
“Don’t stand on ceremony,” said the strange donkey, ” there are bagels enough for everyone so go and help yourself.”

When Patience and Sox had eaten enough, they turned to the donkey they had just met.
“I’m Albert,” he told them. “You two are far too well behaved and polite. Your lady has gone on a ship to learn to listen ……Follow me but don;t get too close in case there are rules about two donkeys to a human. If you come with me we’ll get where we’re going..”
“Which is where?” asked Patience politely
“Going going….going walkies,” shouted Sox, rushing around excitedly.
“Mind your own business madam.”

Albert ambled off and Patience and Sox followed but at a distance. They were safe. They would find their beloved mistress again. And – she would know what they were talking about. Perfect. Or was it????

mapping the heart breaks 4

My heart split into splinters the day my husband died unexpectedly. I have written about the event elesewhere so I will not go back over the details.

I do not know, even though I love another man deeply now, whether it is possible for a heart to heal after such a momentous break. The scars run so so deep.

Love is helping.
Time is helping.
Writing helps enormously.

Today I read a book called “the five people you meet in Heaven” by Mitch Albom and these words went straight to my heart.

“Lost love is still love..It takes a different form that’s all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. ….Life has to end….Love doesn’t.”

I will write in honour of all those I have lost.

I have to put down the burden of my past losses to enter the gate, and to continue to celebrate the life I have been given, my wonderful new love, my two children and my little dog Martha who gives me a run for my money every time I take her on the beach!! I must celebrate the chance to write that has been granted to me.

I will live and laugh again. I will mend my heart. It may have sticky tape and plasters everywhere, there may be cracks apparent, but then I have lived and loved and lost several times and the cracks are a badge of honour.

I am going to celebrate being 54, feisty, and ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am going to celebrate still being young enough, wise enough, LUCKY enough to be loved and in love. I will celebrate life itself, being a survivor.

Enough is enough. Time to step out of the shadows and into the light.

HERE I COME!!!!!!

mapping the heart breaks 3

I survived my childhood!! And much to my delight and surprise was accepted as a student at the Royal Academy of Music where I was (and I intend a small brag here for a change) a prizewinner. I loved playing. I thought I would change the world by playing and talking and insisting on the fact that music was THE international language and that I could be a channel for peace……small dreams!!

Studying in London was freedom. I was anonymous, could come and go as I pleased, could befriend whom I liked, and I grew up and began to enjoy life. I had the usual love affairs but when I was 22 I was invited to a party given by a close friend. I wasn;t going to go – wasn;t really in the mood. When I arrived I started to talking to a small blonde man, who at the time was a sailor in the merchant navy. I knew I had met my husband immediately – there was no doubt at all in my mind.

My parents were Orthodox Jews. My husband was in the merchant navy….the two don;t mix.

I was married in 1975 and have not spoken to my parents or brothers or sister since.
For months I dreamt about them, had nightmares about wandering around in a fog.

My heart broke then, and has never really healed, even though my marriage lasted 29 years.

Several years later I had a miscarriage in the year after my beautiful daughter was born…..another shard, another splinter. Poor baby. So unwanted by anyone apart from its mother.

Interior Cartography #6

Interior Cartography #6– On Labryinths

Crunch, crunch, chrunch….

I jumped, startled as I became aware of Albert standing over me.

“Albert, it’s not polite to read over someone’s shoulder.”

“Thorry.” he lisped.

“And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“My, aren’t we in a mood this morning. “

“Well….yes, I’m sorry. I guess making this map has churned up a lot of unfinished business.”

“That’s the idea. I was wondering–what’s with the labryinth?”

“Oh, yeah….I thought the labryinth would be a good image to use on the map. Back in the Real World, in many cultures, the labryiinth is used as a walking meditation. It’s supposed to represent the Journey or pilgrimage.”

“A journey to what?”

“Well, anything, actually– to God, to Transcendence, Enlightenment, Self-Awareness…. whatever the walker wants or needs to achieve. “

Albert nodded.

“And,” I continued, “when I would walk the labyrinth at home I would use the walk inward towards the center as a time to unload negative issues. When I got to the center, I would meditate or pray or worship– sometimes all three– and then on the walk out I would focus on any insights I might receive. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Indeed.” Albert continued to chewing. “So, on your map the descansos on the way in are an ‘unburdening’ for you?”

“Yes, you got it.”

“What’s at the center of the map for you?”

“I’m not certain yet. I haven’t worked this all out yet. Wholeness? Unblocked creativity? I dunno.”

“Maybe the House of the Serpents?” Albert asked as he chewed, crumbs dropping to the ground.

“Maybe, it might—-Albert, what ARE you eating.”

“Bagels. You want one?”

“Where’d you get bagels out here?”

“From the Ravens. A whole flock dropped by. They thought you might be hungry”

“I didn’t see any Ravens. When was this?”

“You were in the middle of making the third descanso. You were muttering and swearing– in a very bad mood. We were afraid to bother you. Anyway, they were on their way to a bombing mission and couldn’t stay long.”

“A bombing mission?”

“Yes. Seems like a nasty little gnome named Parsley has been stirring up trouble on the Road. Nothing like a little aerial defecation to make the matter right!” Albert began to whinny in delight.

“Albert!”

“Anyway, they left something else for you.” Albert clopped over to the tree stump and picked up something in his mouth. He brought it over and dropped it in front of me. I picked up a gold key, glittering in the campfire.

“It’s from the Sibyl. It’s the gate key to the House of the Serpents.”

Lori Gloyd (c) May 21, 2006

Protectress of the House of Serpents

The Rainbow Priestess is the protector of the House of the Serpents. She holds the key to the gates and will only provide entry to those who have mapped their heart and lightened their load at the Gatehouse. Some travellers have already passed by the Rainbow Priestess and are settling in to the House of Serpents. There will be a banquet to celebrate our arrival and travelling trevere will be asked to amuse the Gorgons with a light hearted, comic presentation.

A voice

Bound tight
gagged and blind
I lost myself

Ideas hidden away
locked, sealed
invisible

A small voice
with no confidence
head low

Beaten down
by words that despise
and hurt

Yet words
are the way
to freedom

Release them
that lay heavy
on my heart

They ooze
like sludge
quivering

timid
shy
unlovable

Word by word
Poem by poem
Blog by blog

A wisp of a voice
grows strong
unafraid

My voice
came as a surprise
like a child

Gurgling
and laughing
with delight

Here I am
not a child

But believing
I can be again

On my terms

Thank You Heather!