The waiting is what hurts most. All those seconds of anticipation, anxiety, anguish. My heart, the little bird with feathers, the thorn-crowned bloody mess, the duct-taped little survivor, is beat-beating with the immensity of love, “boundless as the sea.” All that love sent out into the universe, into the large expanse of purple and blue, stretching out to the constellations, past asteroids and meteors, breaking into molecules and neutrons, becoming one with All. Meanwhile, I, bound in terrestrial body with its malfunctioning brain and too-tender heart, wait.
I tell someone the most important secret I have shared in years–and I wait. I write the most important document I have written in years–and I wait. I breathe in and out, my love bursting from my soul–and I wait. I wait and wait and wait. Hasn’t the universe realized that waiting is what pierces my heart?
This past week, I did something I swore I wouldn’t do ever again. I opened up my soul to someone else. I reached in, took out my heart, encased it in velvet, and presented my gift to him, all bright smile and hope. As each day goes by, the smile fades and hope, that quick-blooded little martyr, flaps its wings harder and harder. To no avail? I cannot tell.