The Excavation of a Heart
The excavation of a heart is lonely work Though you might not have known it at first. Looking to others to fill that ragged jigsaw hole In your chest. But after so many, you know how the body mutinies What the heart is not behind. So now, though the insufficiencies Of childhood were great And the patterns of dysfunction Feel etched into The very geography of your body, You have started to dig. Through a history of Self-mummification, Through all the reasons To not save your own life. Down into that low sediment, That dark, rich soil Who knows what you might find. Maybe a chest Thumping with the song Of your own wild heart. --Quinn Bailey
When I heard this poem for the first time, the sob I held back ached in the center of my chest. But I couldn’t release it to ease the tension. I happened to be in a room full of people, the room silent except for the voice of the person reading. Instead, I let a tear slip out from under one of my closed eyelids.
And did my best to inhale deeply. To breathe those words into my center and hold them there.
For forever.
Sometimes, it feels like I’ve been digging for forever. My fingers raw and bleeding, certain I’ll dig right on through the center of Earth and out the other side, and still not find the song of my own wild heart.
Like I’ll always keep digging up stones and tossing them over my shoulders, looking for the real me, the wild me, the free me.
The one who isn’t afraid of anything.
The one who really knows who I am when no one is looking.
The one who feels free to take the risks that scare me most.
The one who doesn’t always feel several steps behind everyone else leading the way, with no hope of catching up because I’m not creative enough, or innovative enough, or energetic enough, or focused enough, or organized enough, or knowledgeable enough or…whatever it is I am lacking that others who get where I want to be have or are.
And so I keep digging, until I tire of it or the pull of daily life draws me away from my quest. Or I let it. I let it sweep me away into the oftentimes mundane, so I don’t have to try so hard.
I forget about what I’ve set out to do on my self-described journey, letting the soil and stones settle down again, covering up the hole I started excavating.
Until I eventually (and always) come back to that quest to find my own wild heart.
And then when I begin the digging again, I notice the fresh roots, reaching down through the soil, weaving around rocks, or anchoring on them, wrapping smaller stones in a gentle hold.
Oh, the frustration, to have to dig the rocks out again, toss them over my shoulder again, clear the roots free. Just to arrive at the same place I’d been before.
Except that I’m not.
Those new roots? They’re there because I dug in the first place, aerated the soil to give them space to grow. And those roots are strong. They recognize the rocks are part of the rich soil and grow around them. They hold the stones with care and gentleness.
And still they grow. Vibrant. Healthy. Alive.
Sometimes, growth happens because of the work we put into it, and sometimes it happens when we rest in the in-between. When we make a space for what we’ve learned — for what we’ve discovered — and allow it to settle into our beingness. Water it and tend it, without working the fingers raw, without watching for the roots to grow and sprout a shoot that turns into a colorful bloom.
Sometimes, I think the search can become the goal, so we never realize that our wild beating heart has been there all along. We just keep digging, digging, digging.
Life got busy for me. My writing-for-other-people gig suddenly leapt into overdrive, with little time off. And what time I had was spent walking, trying to get my body back in motion, or vegging, doing not much of anything. And then I rolled from teaching my summer class into teaching two fall classes at the university (all online, thankfully).
No yoga. No meditation. No journaling. No creative writing for me (here or my book).
I didn’t really think about it much because the day-to-day carried me away. But in those moments when what I’m not getting around to come to mind, I feel the frustration, anxiety, and guilt. The loss.
But then, on Thursday, things slowed down, and I came up for air. My mind and spirit had time again for openness, to explore my creativity. To begin again the excavation. Only, this time, I took my time with it, knowingly, purposefully slow. Easing into it, rather than ravaging the soil with ferocity.
Today was a spectacular fall day on the Olympic Peninsula. I went to yoga (which kicked my butt in the best of ways!). Then, I went for a short hike after breakfast with my bestie.
At the halfway point, we were treated to the sight of paragliders launching off the bluff and playing against the backdrop of blue sky and blue waters.
I took this video of them (below), and it struck me that their movements looked like a dance. I was mesmerized. We watched for a while, then decided to sit in the grass and watch some more.
One of the gliders swooped above us, shouting down to us about how much fun she was having. On another pass, she shouted down again, “This is the world’s best swing!” Her joy was contagious.
And as I sat watching her and the others strain against the toggles, wrestling the wind, then catching hold of it and letting it swoop them along in a swift, graceful glide, I thought about how life was like that.
Sometimes, you struggle against an invisible force, straining hard to align your life with your desires, and then your sail catches the current, and you ride along effortlessly toward your dream — in your dream — laughing all the way and feeling utter joy in the journey.
But the struggle and strain aren’t failures or faults. Without them, you’d still be standing on the ground, staring up into the sky, wishing you had the wings to fly.
Life is a dance, my friends. It’s ok if you don’t know all the steps, or trip over your own feet at times, or sit on the sidelines for a while to catch your breath.
Peace and love,
Des
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