Can you die from a broken heart?
Yes, you probably can.
But you can also die if you don’t let your heart love.
You can die if you don’t live with an open heart.
No matter what hits you.
Even if you risk getting hurt.
Even if you risk getting it broken.
Even if you risk a little of yourself. Everytime you open your heart.
And love.
Again and again.
And again.
Open your heart.
And love.
It Is Really The Only Thing You Can Do.
“I want a divorce.” He stood leaning against the kitchen window ledge on the first day of fall. The sky is grey. The clouds raging by. It rains. Heavily.
I knew he ment it.
My brain works hard. Usually, in these situations I’d say something like: “Well, then we might as well get divorced.” Then we’d fight some more.
And argue. Loudly. Back and forth.
Something like: “Come on, we have to make this work.” Usually, it would be him saying that. Then I’d act a little aloof. Waiting for him to apologize. He only did that the first years of our marriage.
Then finally, we’d end up agreeing on something come on ish. Somewhat like when you’re totally behind in a sporting event and then during the time out everyone is yelling their head off: “Come ON. Come ooooooooooooooooooooooooooon…”
But unlike how it used to be, I wasn’t the one threatening to get a divorce. He was the one wanting one.
Do you see the difference?
Getting a divorce. And wanting a divorce.
So I tried to keep calm.
“Come on. You don’t mean that. You don’t want that.”
“Yes. We are getting a divorce. There is no way back.”
No way around. Or no way out. My brain locked. My heart stopped. My image of our picture perfect family went to pieces. In one split second. Just like lightning ripping through a summer night’s sky. without warning.
When did our marriage die?
I sit with him. For two and a half hours. His breathing is fast. And shallow. I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before. I only know his first name. He’s been lying in this bed for a week now. Unconscious. Waiting for his organs to shut down. The body to say goodbye. He’s not old.
I talk to him about the view. Which is amazing. It is a Sunday morning. The fall sky is blue. Clear and blue. The sun is shining. I sing. And talk. About this and that. I read a little. And draw. A mandala. I call it Blood Moon. I tell him. About the last Blood Moon in 1982. And the next one occuring in 2033. Time is a strange thing.
After a couple of hours another volunteer is coming to sit with him. I say farewell. And right then and there he opens his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek. We look into each other’s eyes.
Human to human.
Soul to soul.
We talk in silence. And I speak out loud. It’s okay. I am right here.
Together, we’re in a place beyond time and perception. Beyond the thoughts and comprehension of the intellect. Beyond language.
It’s just us. Him and me. His gaze meeting mine.
We are one and the same.
The heart stops beating. He has traveled on. But before he did, he made a mark in me.
I am humble and grateful.
Dancing on the rainbows 