Breath & Heart
The Voice of Breath Crying Out
My heart! My heart!
Wildly beating, erratic, running amidst the woods and plains.
My heart! My heart!
Going hither like a drum with no course;
a ship with slapping sounds.
I gasp. [silence]
calling out again:
My heart! My heart.
Where have you fled? Where do you go?
Your dance is far from me.
Gasp.
I shutter. I am weak of melody. I tremble.
[screaming] My heart! [quietly] My heart…
Heart Hears and Responds
Hello? I hear you. What has happened? Where are you?
Breath - Weak but in Joyous Surprise and Delight responds
My heart! [said more quietly] My heart…
The Voice of Breath Goes on: The Invitation
My heart! My heart.
Come into me. Rest.
My heart, I am near, be near. I have blown through your hair as you’ve played among the hyenas, scorpions, and sharks.
You have played fiercely.
Are you not tired?
Come rest in my balmy breeze and my dewy morn.
Come! Gather honey and seeds from my courts for a sweet resting
place. We shall plant a sweet and fragrant garden, my heart.
We shall gather our sheets and build a tent and coo melodies of
rising and setting.
We shall gather our bowls and trowels
to plant a garden of hyssop and echinacea, lavender and
chamomile, primrose and lemon balm.
We shall dance among the vines and honey suckle.
I shall cover you with my exhale; my words a shawl of peace and blessing.
We shall play contentedly among the waters and grass.
My heart. My wild heart.
The Voice of Heart
I am tired. But I don’t remember you - the breeze is a storm where I play…
violence from day to day. I have little breath; I skip all day.
There is no rest; only play for play is war and war is death.
I gasp…
for life but only survive, beating, beating, pounding, pounding ….all night and all of the day.
I cry for breath, I have so little, my tears are the morning dew and the fall showers.
I’m torn asunder, plundered, stripped —
bare as winter, and cold — what do I have left to give you?
The Voice of Breath
My heart, my heart.
Take my breath unto thee. I shall blow upon thy face. Inhale. Let my breeze be a garment upon your winter. Let my exhale melt your cold.
Let the cup of the daffodil gather your tears, let your head rest upon the bosom of my spring. Let my summer swaddle you from pounding and erratic rhythm.
Rest.
My heart. Rest, for I shall be your shroud, I shall be your breath.
As the forest of your pounding quakes, I shall rock thee to the melody of my love.
As the earth shakes beneath thee,
I shall be thy solid foundation.
What fierce wind challenges me? What storm shall you find sleep?
Indeed, spring has come and my pastures are green.
Oh my wild heart, what shall you breath in first?
The Voice of Heart
I do not know. I shutter under your exhale. My beating spent. I drink of your springs of living water one small sip at a time.
I look over my shoulder. I race to the edge of the fields. I hear the sound in the plains; its cry in the mountains. My heart echoes its pounding. I cry. I shutter.
Gasp.
They will come to these fields. They will plunder thy pastures. They will steal you, my garment — they will leave my grave open, the vultures will descend. No breath will be found there. I shall be a tomb — my breath stolen, my beating silent.
I look upon the spring, thy summer; I cower. Pounding, pounding. I hear the sounds of the mountains, and the songs of the plains. I am my own grave, my own tomb.
Will I plunder you — strip your pastures and pollute your springs? It’s the only rhythm I hear; it’s the dance of the peoples of the earth. How can I stay here? Can’t you hear its call?
The Voice of Breath
My heart. My heart.
My voice bids you rest. That which you hear is no play and no voice to heed. Follow the sound of me in the garden. The plains may call, but my wind shall shift. You are weary, my breath is light and invigorating. I will be your breath, your life, I will shut your grave, I will protect your tomb. I will bring life and still the whirling springs and jitters of your pace. Living water will be found as a well within.
Come, sit among the honey suckle. We can plant a garden, a well spring of life. Come, rest with me. The beat of the plains has no rhythm, like a sea without a shore. It knows only itself, an echo in an echo; a distant shadow from longer days.
When you listen to the plains and its call you beat without purpose, pace without reason. You lose me. Sigh. I’m here. Inhale.
My heart. Come, rest in the grass, be swaddled in my summer. Listen to my love.
Won’t you come and follow me?
The Voice of Heart
I will come.