A letter to my heart
Hello, my old friend.
It is strange to feel your pulse. So many moons have waned since we last spoke that I nearly forgot you were capable of speaking; capable of breathing. Your presence makes me timid; not scared, but unsure. Last time we danced I drowned in a winter river whose shallows had been frozen by the cold and sunless hours. There was life and then it stopped, and there was no way to breathe. No way to swim, no way to continue forward. So I locked you away and forgot. I forgot your warmth, your loneliness, your cruel attachments and my secret gardens to which you hold the keys.
It is with a whisper and a great pause that I bade your return. Please, be tender, be soft and be kind. I am not yet ready for the river of compassion and adoration with which your dams have made reservoirs. Reservoirs so deep they feel like oceans. Please, hold the walls for a bit longer. I am unsteady and unsure. Keep the keys hidden and the dams solid until I say I can ensure the replenishing of my wild places.
Do not misunderstand. I would welcome you back completely were I confident that I could handle another frozen lake or arid desert. For those are what come when the dammed rivers run dry and the gardens become void of water. When they are not refilled I lose you in the cold and sweaty abyss of my mind.
So, please. Beat with caution and pity. Please, be thoughtful and timid and let time pass before you begin beating too strongly. I promise, one day we will run together again and the sun will shine brightly on the green grass beneath my feet. However, today we must wait. I beg you, be patient and please be smart. Pulse lightly. For even soft beats are enough to force tears from my eyes and to knock the door of my soul.
By Meaghan Weldele
Written 8 July 2018
Photo: Near Sapa, Quan Ba District, Vietnam