Always to know my heart. For years, I didn’t. If it wasn’t hurtin,’ I kept that door closed, and it got me through the day-to-day until it didn’t.
Constantly, I am amazed by the number of rooms in my heart with once-closed doors but mine is not a rooming house. The heart can hold only so much before it bursts, freeing what cannot stay shut away.
Life cannot be kept within walls, in rooms with locked doors, but I once thought otherwise. To compartmentalize my heart seemed the way to shut away pain and separately, store the love. Such a struggle that was.
Peace rides a torrent as easily as it becalms, ever even. Why not be just as available? Why not?
All of life is an experience, ageless, and discovery perpetual. We find stuff when we need it. The heart, scarred yet soft, is a virtual library where the past opens to the present.
I’ve learned to live with my own discomfort,
to allow myself to be touched by pain—
even to embrace it as the great healer,
a kind of traveling professor.
(Glennon Doyle Melton)
I check-in with my heart, making sure that its windows are thrown open so life flows through rather than getting closed off in a room of its own. That is the stuff of storms.