For The Ones Who Are "My Heart"

. . . The Tinman's Heart & The Lion's Courage

The past week has been quite lovely and wonderful. A fantastic party at Terrell’s (his best signature drink yet – the Ascension), First Friday (note to self – add to Birthday/Christmas list), Madagascar with my nephew Tucker (Love Moto Moto – with “a name so nice you wanna say it twice” – who also says “she loves me, she loves my eyes, she loves me, she loves my thighs” and absolutely ADORE precious Melman), Tennessee Williams’ Sweet Bird of Youth (a Toast to Jim Dear), Drinks at Tic Toc (special time with my baby sister) . . . why I was even honored with one of the starring roles in Christmas Belles at Theatre Macon (save the date!)

But every single word that I tried to write about any one of those events ended up on a hypothetical piece of paper, hypothetically crumpled up and hypothetically thrown in the wastebasket . . . most of them even missed!

And then my friend Adam came to my rescue.

He said “Close your eyes, just breathe, and take in every beautiful thing around you . . . the words you want on paper will flow, and you'll be blessed with the greatest writing you've ever imagined . . . loves u! –Adam.”

So I did. And when I closed my eyes I saw one of the week's moments, playing on the back of my eyelids like an old movie:

. . . I was holding little Katie Grace (4 months), my niece, when Tucker (4 years) came over to her, placed his forehead against hers, and said . . . “you are my heart” . . .

Naturally, I began to think about all of the people who are in my heart. And that’s when I realized why I was having so much trouble writing about a party or a play or a feather in my bonnet. You see, two of those people in my heart are hurting. And I feel just about as helpless as a newborn baby. I’m a great soup & food delivery girl, I give THE best hugs, and I have a forged-in-stone policy that none of my people cry alone. But both of these people live far away? And when I talk to them on the phone . . . everything just seems so wrong.

A joke or funny story feels insensitive. Talking about me seems . . . well – selfish. There’s awkward when I Pollyanna out and try to make suggestions about what might make them feel better. And when I commiserate I fear that I’m bringing them even further down. As one of them prepares to lose the home that they love and another prepares to lose a loved one . . . I can’t find the right words?

And then I remembered an interview that I saw. A mother was asked how she remained positive during her infant son’s final days. She said “he was here now” . . . and . . . “I could be sad later.” So I went back and watched the touching story again. And I began to feel joy . . . joy for the gift of inspiration I've received from a loved one that I've never met and joy for the memories that I've made in a house that I've never lived in. Joy . . .

. . . for the courage of the ones who are in my heart.

aS

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