You Cannot Rescue a Sinking Heart

It happens again today. With no warning.
My heart sinks.
Plummets.
Straight to the bottom of my belly with no warning.
I had all the intention in the world this morning to be of service.
To be positive.
To be a good neighbor.

And certainly I will. In just a few more minutes.
In just a few hours.
Once I can pull my heart up off the bottom of the floor of my stomach.
Ugh.
It's much heavier than I thought.

And it's not like I'm not trying. I am!
I'm pulling and pulling.
But it seems it's found a nook down there
In between droppings of past hurt
Past heart-breaks
Little pieces are still down there
And now this big, enlarged, heavy heart of mine is getting cozy down there with the past pieces.
"How could you do this to me, heart?!"
I want to yell at it.
Now I'm getting angry. Frustrated.
And it's pulling back harder.
And the little pieces of the past are gripping their claws into my passionate heart.

"I thought I got rid of you guys?"
I say in frustration.
"C'mon. We made a deal in those meditations. In those yoga asanas."
"Don't you remember those journals? Where I flushed you out? Each and every little heartbreak.
Where I filled the holes that came after with gratitude?"
Ugh.
I thought you were gone.

And yet there you are.
Betrayal.
Sin.
Shame.
Cradling my inflamed heart with your claws.

Ugh.
You guys are strong.
And I'm not a good fighter today.
I cannot pull you up off the floor of my belly.

And when it comes time to read something
The words that I need to hear appear in front of me
And my eyes fill with tears
And my body starts to shake
And suddenly a tsunami lifts my heart
From the bottom of my belly
And carries it
Heaving
Up into my chest
And I begin to choke on the waves in my throat.

You cannot pull a heart back
To where it belongs
You cannot rescue it.
You cannot fight it
Or deny its right to be where it needs to be
You need to give it time
Acceptance, and understanding
And it will come back.
As always do
The tides of the ocean.

People Don't Leave Rooms

People don't leave rooms.
If I sit on the spot on the couch that I usually sit in, there's a big gaping hole across from me that looks awkward and uncomfortable and too barren to bear.
It's not an empty space, though.
It's a hole with something lingering.

The silence is louder than usual.
You can hear things, now, like a fly land on the drainboard.
Even putting music on doesn't help.
It knows I'm trying to cover something up so it doesn't sound the same.

Even eating inside has been weird.
It's like the food doesn't want me to make it.

You're holding on in places I didn't think I'd find you.
A t-shirt I stuck back on my shelf that I must have worn by you and didn't wash because it's your smell.
The sounds of motorcycles going by that we used to cringe about.
Geckos on my ceiling.

When you let people in
sometimes you don't know it's going to be forever.

The thing about living alone
is that every entrance leaves a strong mark.
Every sip of hot coffee
on lonely mornings thereafter
is loud and dramatic
And every nighttime
is a lullaby you must sing to yourself.

It's beautiful, in a way,
to live with yourself alone
for so long
keeping yourself company
And getting to know all the levels of your craziness.

Letting people in
sometimes carefully and cautiously
sometimes with corners tidied
and meals prepared with recipes...

And sometimes,
spontaneously
No second-thoughts
No house sweeping or bed-making
crazy salads and smoothies

Those ones
stay forever.