Chop't salads at Union Station
the walk to Eastern Market
Port City Java
laughing until my sides ache on the Metro
running past 1615 L St and remembering
cupcakes and 30 Rock
good wine at happy hour and telling the secret I had been holding
running to the Capitol Building in the bright cold sun
leaves crunching on East Capitol St.
beginning to count gifts again in the journal from Italy
the zoo lights at the National Zoo
the warm cider and the long walk back down memory lane
and they go on and on. And each one is a stitch back together. Each one knits the broken jagged edges to each other. My eyes are tired and my feet don't want to carry me any more. The idea of resting or waiting or listening to the silence feels impossible... but this is the season where my heart is healed.
Hearts really do heal. I don't know if you can hear me. But if you wonder about whether your heart will be healed, I'm leaning in close to tell you:
You will be full to overflowing.
I promise you. I promise you that time and winter and Advent heal. I promise that lighting candles and drinking tea and walking through your disappointments or your sorrows will move you to the other side. I promise that even as you pick your feet up to go up one more flight of stairs and you set your hands to the keyboard again, doing the small brave beautiful thing will heal you. I promise you with all of my heart because I wonder too, because I don't always trust it, but because if I tell you then I'll try to hope in it, too. Our hearts will become beautiful.
Last year a good friend of mine and I wrote "Poetic Friday" emails every week. We shared stories and always ended with a poem. She gave this one to me when I'd been having a tough week, and now I'm giving it to you, dear reader.
He is giving us back whole hearts.
Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
on an open sky.
has to be
so you can find
the one line
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving
you are arriving.
~ David Whyte ~