Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Rooted Heart
For twenty-five years, I have worn one form of the winged heart or another, most of them in broach form, all representing my own restless heart. I always forcibly clipped my wings in order to stay in a single place with a single man, but that never worked for long. I stayed, but only until my flight feathers had grown back and I could move on with my restless winged heart.
A great deal lately has seemingly conspired to offer me that last Great Love I have so long begged the Cosmos to give me, and as hard as I twist and turn, I find myself increasingly enmeshed in an undeniable increase of emotion towards this gentle fellow who has so unexpectedly come into my life. Coldly put, eh? That's just my Gate Guardians doing their best to protect my fragile corpus.
For the first time in my life, I am being prudent, careful, taking time to know this man, to check the fit of our puzzle pieces, to discover everything I can before allowing my gates to open and grant him full access. So we walk, we talk, we sit, we talk some more, and we walk some more. Knowing mine is a heart so-ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger, you can but imagine my surprise when, during the first of our lovely walks, I encountered a graffitied winged heart on a wall of an old building. And I took a photograph.
Weeks later I happened across the photograph again, and it suddenly struck me that this was not just a winged heart. It was a winged heart that had grown roots!
Could it be that I was growing roots as I walked over the needle-softened ground and down the rock-strewn beaches with this comfortable person, or were the roots there, just waiting for him to nurture them? With every step I grow stronger and healthier, more sure-footed and alive. Every time his arms go around me, I settle a little more into them. His smell is becoming a part of me, and I miss it when he's not near. Parts of me I thought long dead are coming to life like plants in Frances Hodgson Burnett's Secret Garden. The possibility of love - solid, honest love - is real again, and much to both his and my own absolute pleasure, we are caught in an amazing whirlwind of pleasure.
Will this last? Will the roots grow deep and healthy? Will my wings only be used for flights of fancy from now on? The only answer I have for that are the words of Willy Wonka, "The suspense is killing me..I hope it lasts!"