The WHIRRING Heart
I lived with my Grandma in a rural community for a year. I was bused 7 miles to high school in the "big city" ---population 1001.
During class, there are inevitable moments when the room is silent. Perhaps it was time to study, read, or calculate math....
But in the silence of our sophomore class.... there was a WHIRRING.
Shwoosh Shwoosh Shwoosh over and over. The mechanical sound of an artificial heart.
I can picture her clearly. Her hair was dusty blond and fell down to her belt line, but she kept her bangs trimmed around her face. Average height, average build. Her name escapes me--- but in my minds eye I can see her now.
I was "new" I hadn't been raised in the community... I was a "TEMP" in small populations like these ALL the kids in my class had known each other since tricycle street racing years. Their whole elementary years they became accustomed to the WHIR... but once in a while I found myself looking over my shoulder at her in the "silence" observing what wasn't "normal" to me... but was NORMAL to her.
Her story was simple. Fake heart (or some type of mechanism that kept her physically inadequate heart pumping and regulated) SOoooooo, in the silent moments WHIRR SHWOOSH WHIRR SHWOOSH.
As I ponder it now... I see the metaphor of the heart. The moving of the mechanism that kept her alive. It sounded different than my own. BUT it was the moving of the HEART... that kept her breath coming, her mind searching, her emotions flowing.
Is my heart so different? THE BEAT of my own that is the RHYTHM of my Message. MY CRY OUT TO UNIVERSE saying I AM HERE.
The DRUM. THE MUSIC that fuels the dance of my life.
Keep beating your music. DECLARE IT. It is the MOVING of the HEART that GIVES us LIFE.
CLAIM IT.
Do things that "MOVE" your heart.
During class, there are inevitable moments when the room is silent. Perhaps it was time to study, read, or calculate math....
But in the silence of our sophomore class.... there was a WHIRRING.
Shwoosh Shwoosh Shwoosh over and over. The mechanical sound of an artificial heart.
I can picture her clearly. Her hair was dusty blond and fell down to her belt line, but she kept her bangs trimmed around her face. Average height, average build. Her name escapes me--- but in my minds eye I can see her now.
I was "new" I hadn't been raised in the community... I was a "TEMP" in small populations like these ALL the kids in my class had known each other since tricycle street racing years. Their whole elementary years they became accustomed to the WHIR... but once in a while I found myself looking over my shoulder at her in the "silence" observing what wasn't "normal" to me... but was NORMAL to her.
Her story was simple. Fake heart (or some type of mechanism that kept her physically inadequate heart pumping and regulated) SOoooooo, in the silent moments WHIRR SHWOOSH WHIRR SHWOOSH.
As I ponder it now... I see the metaphor of the heart. The moving of the mechanism that kept her alive. It sounded different than my own. BUT it was the moving of the HEART... that kept her breath coming, her mind searching, her emotions flowing.
Is my heart so different? THE BEAT of my own that is the RHYTHM of my Message. MY CRY OUT TO UNIVERSE saying I AM HERE.
The DRUM. THE MUSIC that fuels the dance of my life.
Keep beating your music. DECLARE IT. It is the MOVING of the HEART that GIVES us LIFE.
CLAIM IT.
Do things that "MOVE" your heart.
photo by Danny Goldfield
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