Anyway, it made me think about how we go around trying to protect ourselves from hurt, from denting those hearts of ours. How we avoid some things because we want to keep our hearts whole and pristine and perfect. Stupid. Really stupid.
My heart has been dented plenty, and oh yes, I have tried to protect it, and have regarded the dents as flaws. Weaknesses. I know that it is hard to trust again if your heart has been broken. I know it is difficult to risk love, if you know that gives the loved one the power to hurt you. I know people die, pets die, people say terrible things, do terrible things. I know accidents happen. Life can take some horrible turns, and I know that too.
But what I had not thought about was that scar tissue. Once it forms, the scar tissue, that is, it is thicker than the surrounding skin. Maybe stronger, because of the thickness. It has been broken, it has healed and still works. And I KNOW THAT. I look at my leg, where I had an operation when I was 10 years old. There is a scar, and the stitch marks are clearly visible. But I know it is whole and fixed, because I can see it. Every day. It looks different, but it is part of me, and it works.
So back to that heart of ours. Pristine, unblemished, perfect? Or patched, dented, and clearly used well? Geoff used to laugh when I bought metres of fabric, came home and chopped it all up and sewed it together again to make quilts. He did not get the creative quilt thing, and wanted to know why I cut up perfect fabric - whole and pristine, and then sewed it up again. To make something even better, I used to say. But you are losing so much of the fabric in seams, he said - ah yes, but I am making it stonger too, I said. More beautiful.
I think my heart is a patchwork heart. I think that, after 55 years, it is scarred, dented, bashed and a little lopsided, and the scar lines are the seams of the patchwork. So many patches stitched together. It is unique. It is mine. And it tells the story of my life.
And if I had lived in a bubble, never shed a tear, never hurt, or laughed till I could hardly breathe, or loved so much, or lost at all, it may have been pristine and perfect, but boring. Unused. Neutral. Nothing.
There is no such thing as an unused heart. While there is life, it beats. And where there is life, there is all the other stuff. The dents. It is inescapable. The more patches on the heart, the bigger it gets. The stronger it will be. Infinite capacity to grow.
I like being older. My heart may be all the above - but it fits perfectly.
And now for something COMPLETELY different!
I am a Grilled Grandma !!!! How exciting is that. Hop on over and have a look! Lisa has a wonderful blog, and I thoroughly enjoyed being grilled. And reading other Grandma's stories too!
I am about to attempt putting the badge up here. Hmmm. It may be a trifle challenging. I have however, put it in the sidebar, so it is easy to click on it and see my grilling!
(I apologise for the multiple postings on this post - I am trying to sort things. Really. )