My sweet grandmother turned 88 last week. About three years ago doctors offered her a choice. To risk a dangerous operation in which she might lose her life, or do nothing and allow ... allow the inevitable eroding tissue of her heart to give out at its own pace (soon).
She took the risk.
They cut her open, took her heart into hand, put it on a table beside her body. They went through it for any weakness the way you might finger the fabric of an old family quilt--to mend, strengthen. Then they put her heart back (with over 80 years of love--for my grandfather, my family, the earth, her traveling, every little secret thing she may or may not even know about herself, or tell anyone else; all maybe within it).
Imagine holding in your hand the beating center of someone’s life? I try to imagine its weight, its obvious warmth, its pulsing against the sensitivity of my pulse. It makes me weak, all over. To hold another’s heart like that, to share that kind of experience, I would quite literally fall in love—bonded to that person forever.
It is in our hands, really, just like that, so much: this world, its health/our health, the quality of giving, of mercy, integrity. Truth telling, risk. One to another, we are each other’s heart surgeons, mind surgeons, hope surgeons—teachers. (Aren’t we)?
Nazim Hikmet ..... his poem On Living: this is a poem that made me think once, that poetry really mattered when i was almost 20. More here...
some rare old beauties: I have a friend who dismantles these to use in sculpture (she drives me nuts cause i always want them). Look to the left for versions.
Beckett, Play: part 1 & part 2 also the text..
peace to all of you--and a *can i please
refuse to take a bath" peek a boo from mr. beagle bunny. : )
link to tumbleword other site
ahh.. : ) a beautiful day