For the past few years I've had a real knack for finding heart-shaped things while roaming in the great outdoors. It's mostly stones. I found the one above my first day on Penzance Beach and it fits in the palm of my hand. The orange with flecks of red is comforting to me--it's almost as if this stone sends out gentle heat rays that travel through the mini chakras in my palms to the rest of my body. Whether the heat is real or imagined, I like this stone and the two others that have followed it.
Two nights ago while waiting for my dinner at The Turk's Head I ordered a Turk's Head Ale--a rich, golden brown, 1/2 inch of light creamy foam on the top, and only a slight bitterness that went away after the first few sips. By the end of my fish & chips and "home mushed" peas, the foam slid down the glass forming the familiar shape.
While walking the coastal path to St. Michael's Mount this heart called out to me. The shape is more subtle, but it's there. It even looks like there is a face peering out.
And then there is this one from St. Michael's Mount itself: the "Giant's Heart". It is laid within the cobbles that tourists walk over during their climb to the castle and is a reference to the story of Jack the Giant Killer.
Visitors to the island get the chance to hear the story retold every twenty minutes on how a boy named Jack slew the giant Cormoran by waking him with a horn--angry and stunned with the sun in his eyes, the giant fell off the summit and down into a pit that Jack had dug. I did not join others on the green to listen to the story as I was more intent on exploring the castle and taking in the gorgeous views of the sea, but I did begin to think about all these hearts.
What do they mean? Is my discovery of them a result of "zen eye" or are they a sign of some kind? Maybe they are both. When I returned to my room yesterday afternoon from the journey to St. Michael's Mount and Marazion (the tiny hamlet that claims the Mount), I signed on to Facebook to post pictures of my adventure and was reminded about the physical vulnerability of my own ticker.
The Blue Ribbon Project, which works to raise awareness about arthritis, had posted an acknowledgement of passing for two young women--both in their early twenties--who had died from heart failure as a complication of rheumatoid arthritis (RA). I am nearly 40 and don't have RA, but ankylosing spondylitis (AS) falls into the autoimmune category along with RA. Primarily an arthritis of the spine, AS affects just about everything else in the body--from hips to knees and all the rest of the joints; to tendons, ligaments, and internal organs. Yes, the heart being one of them. In AS there can be scarring of the aorta and scarring of the electrical conduction system. I was put on the watch list early on in my diagnosis because my heart is not only an incredibly rapid beater (often 120 bpm, sitting), it routinely skips beats, referred to as PVCs or premature ventricular contractions. And the fatigue I experience on a daily basis can be absolutely crushing. This may be a result of the inefficient heartbeat, the ungodly amount of inflammation that is circulating in my body, or the chronic pain.
Some days I still think that my doctor must have gotten the diagnosis wrong. And then I see or hear stories that detail the ravages of autoimmune illness which break me out of my reverie, or I am utterly leveled by the pain and fatigue. During these times I feel ill to the very marrow of my bones and I get scared. I lie awake worrying that I will never be vital again; that the chance for meaningful, purpose-driven work has passed me by. The disease by itself is bad enough, but then you add in the medications used to combat it. After two years of failed trials, I now seem to be responding to a regimen, but the medications have their own attendant risks. The methotrexate I take once a week is a chemotherapy drug at higher doses--it suppresses my immune system and is supposed to help the remicade I get infused with every 5-8 weeks work its magic. I can't ignore the immediate side effects of these medications, either. I feel like death for 2-3 days after. The fact that remicade can cause all sorts of cancers and actually kill a person during the infusion somehow floats just outside my consciousness. I don't want to think about it. And I want my heart to go on beating for quite a long while.
I have work to do.
I've realized while pondering this string of hearts I've found in Penzance that my interest in heart-tending goes back at least ten years, ever since my grandfather died. I watched his heart beat on the screen for hours after the ventilator was pulled. Hours. Beating at an incredible clip. And then I watched it stop. His passing was a moment of warmth and calm. I received a reminder these past couple of days that whatever may or may not happen with my own heart, that strength of his lives on in mine. I genetically inherited that will to live.
Equally as important, I learned through watching him the value of touching another's heart with the strong, yet gentle and quiet presence of one's own. With characteristically few words involved, it's sort of like a Reiki session when one places hands on the shoulders or just above the shoulders of the recipient--the energy just goes where it's needed. Only in this case the energy transfer is heart to heart.
It isn't paid work, this heart-tending. It's human work. It involves a bit of intuition. Authenticity. And a deep caring and desire to do good in the world. It's not flashy. Instant. Expensive. Or easy. But it does involve hearing, feeling and seeing. And it just might mean the world to the person who receives.
I can only hope that I continue to find hearts wherever I go.
I give thanks to the goddess for my continued ability to hear, feel, and see.......
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