A Gem from Help, Thanks, Wow: A Word About Heart Armor

via Boing Boing
via Boing Boing
via Boing Boing

“Sin is not the adult bookstore on the corner. It is the hard heart, the lack of generosity, and all the isms, racism and sexism and so forth. But is there a crack where a ribbon of light might get in, might sneak past all the roadblocks and piles of stones, mental and emotional and cultural?”

Anne Lamott, “Help, Thanks, Wow” (p. 62)

The truth in this quote seized me from the pages of one of my Christmas gifts, but typed up on this 17-inch screen the words are damning. My heart is tender, too tender, and so I have learned, finally, to seal it up tight to keep the hurtful barbs of life and crushing betrayals from causing more cardiac damage. But then, at what point does guarding this most critical muscle give way to hardening? And isn’t a hardened heart far more tragic than a broken heart?

Guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.

Check out the stunning portfolio of futuristic armored organs at Viaframe.

Be Thanking

Living on pins, needles these past months since

Surviving a second heart attack in eleven years I’m finally

Beginning to relax,

Feeling better, better than back to normal, lighter, back to

Working at my

Marketing job for a

Publishing company, which isn’t all that creative but freed me to reserve my creative energies for

Digging into deep thesis revisions, finally finished, and now the joy of

Crafting it into a manuscript, because a friend who read it thanked me for

Revealing, in my stories, a gracious God, a

Loving God, the same one who let my heart keep

Beating in July, so that in November, this quiet

Thanksgiving

Morning I am

Enjoying just

Sitting on my Crate and Barrel couch

Watching another Macy’s Day parade, my 49th, and

Sipping coffee my

Darling husband brewed, and I can see outside tiny snowflakes

Falling, and I can hear the egg timer shaped like a chicken

Ticking down the minutes for the pumpkin pie, my sweetie’s favorite, in the oven

Baking,

Filling our home with cozy aromas after yesterday, a glorious, common day of

Cleaning and

Cooking and

Nesting to give my babies, two teenagers who are still in their beds

Sleeping, memories of a normal holiday with their mother who loves them more than life still

Breathing,

Typing this little post,

Trying in vain to capture her gratitude by

Counting the ways she is blessed with gifts so good it’s

Embarrassing, so extravagant that all she can do is just be

Thanking.

But Looking Marvelous Would Be Nice Too: Inching Back to Normal

Billy+Crystal+-+You+Look+Marvelous+-+12%22+RECORD-MAXI+SINGLE-524011My previous post generated an outpouring of love in a variety of forms—compassion and empathy, mainly, and also soup—so I feel compelled to offer an update. Here it is.

Great news! I’m back to my usual state of feeling better than I look! I’ve had three consecutive, fairly “normal” health and energy days. I am hopeful this trend will continue and that when I return to work next week I will feel fully recovered from my July 23 Colorado summer vacation heart attack. (No I was not a ganja tourist. I do not smoke. Anything.)

That is all.

p.s. Thanks for the love.

p.p.s. My husband is my prince.

p.p.p.s. Thanks, Shouts from the Abyss, Demotivational Specialist, Negativity Guru, and friend, for the most vivid and precise illustration of empathy I’ve ever encountered, in this video.

 

 

Healing The Heart with a Big Giant Kid and a Little Kiddie Lit

Have a carrot.
Image borrowed from Rob's Thoughtful Spot

The Runaway Bunny

The second sweetest thing about cardiac recovery is the extravagance of time you find to loll on the screened porch playing the synopsis game with your 18 year-old son, who hasn’t yet read the books you’ve loved in college and half a lifetime, but who has read the books you loved and hated in high school but can’t recall.

The sweetest thing about cardiac recovery is winning at the synopsis game against your über literary little boy-man, with the clue, “a child tries to prove his independence by leaving in many ways, never escaping the persistence of his mother’s love,” and the prize: digging out, dusting off, and reading aloud to this man the book he doesn’t remember finding in his first Easter basket, a book you read and re-read to him before naps, after naps, at bedtime, and so many times in between until the pages were bent and sticky and smudged with too swift a season.

“Have a carrot.”

Have a carrot. Image borrowed from Rob's Thoughtful Spot
Image borrowed from Rob’s Thoughtful Spot

Wintertime – Living is Easy

winter is easy

winter is easyApproaching the six year anniversary of the 95 percent blockage in my 38 year-old lower anterior descending artery, I’m still counting my blessings. Happy to be alive, that’s what I am. I snuggle longer, stress less, laugh more, eat dessert first, kiss my sleeping kids — all that jazz. But: I miss shoveling snow!

At the end of a week in the hospital recovering from my freak heart attack, the doctor sent me home with a list of activities and corresponding time frames when I would be allowed to return to them. “Walk a block – one week. Light house work – two weeks. Climb stairs – three weeks. Have sex – four weeks. Shovel snow – NEVER.”

Indiana was blessed with a lovely snow storm last night. Balm to my soul. Anyone who knows me knows I didn’t leave Colorado in my rearview mirror seven years ago. It hangs around my neck like a tacky accessory I refuse to remove. It’s a virus I can’t shake. The West was my home for thirteen glorious years; it’s where I grew up, found Me, met grace, died a couple times, learned to live, work and play. It’s in my blood, and I’ll ache for it until I return for good.

But in the meantime, a blanket of white provides temporary relief to the longing I feel for my home on the range. A snowy day doesn’t have to be an official snow day to be a Snow Day to me. This morning, though, it’s official. Work and school are closed. I’ve suited up my children to play in the snow and help Daddyo shovel.

As I sit here in flannel jammies, my husband is outside laboring to clear twelve inches the heavens heaped on our driveway as we slept. I wish I could help him. Aside from feeling guilty that he’s pert near dead from cold and effort, I’m a little envious! I want to feel the warm, wet fleece against my neck and the cling of sweaty silks on my back. But if I do, I might die!

So, I’ll watch through the triple panes from the big comfy couch as I sip coffee and type on my laptop with Ellen on in the background. And I’ll have hot cocoa ready for my cold, sweaty, rosy-cheeked loved ones.

Living is good.