It does fun little flips that make me catch my breath. It races in the heat of passion—even just thinking about the heat of passion. It breaks. It mends. It remembers the agony of the break, the ache during healing, but still loves. It refuses sit safely on the sidelines. It expands—doubling, sometimes tripling in size—making room for those needing love.
Does it always preform perfectly? No. It stumbles and falls. But it picks itself up, dusts off the drama, accepts the hurt and continues. These feats of my heart surprise me, because I haven’t always let it run free… I didn’t trust it, so I kept it locked away. Hidden. But even shuttered away in darkness it stayed soft and open. And I’m so thankful. Its capacity for love continues to grow and I believe it always will. It finds joy in the outpouring you see.
I don’t relish the pain that sometimes comes with an acrobatic heart, but I’m not afraid of it anymore. Because, like it’s jubilant opposite, the hurt proves I’m alive and capable of depths of feeling so beautiful and profound that to not know them would be like sleepwalking through life, numb to everything. And I choose to feel.