Thursday, December 22, 2011

900 Ways to Kill a Canary [excerpt]

That part of your brain that regulates pumpkin pie moments or in some deep, mysterious part of you that is somewhere else entirely.

There is a small hollow in the curve of one’s wrist, where two fingers, resting gently on the skin, can feel the small and steady thump-thump of their own heart. A person can actually put a finger on the rhythm of our own life. She can touch the beat of the drum that her life marches to.

Oh heartbeat, sustain the weight of Atlas’ globe.

Written in small slender script on this hollow are four little letters. L.O.V.E. Underneath the white skin, the heartbeat surges each day. And lifts up and down in rhythm to its being—“Love.” The heart beats in love. The blood surges through the arteries in Love. I am in Love and out of it I will not go. All that the body is, it owes to Love. The heart beats, because it is loved. The only reason that the little heartbeat is even pounding is Love. And Love is what the small heart is called to do. Love is its raison d’être. Its animae. Its life. Its breath. That simple and tender heart beats over one hundred thousand times a day, and each time it beats, it beats in order to love. It beats to love all the other heartbeats in the world. Written on her arm is a reminder that she lives in Love, and safe in His arms she will remain. That she was created in Love and that she was born to love to others.

The world is too harsh to house such a creature.

There is a delicate stasis in a human person. There is such a small point of balance in the human’s body—such a tiny place of rest between death on both sides. Life is a dance. Life is a tender and delicate tightrope walk, that is devastatingly susceptible to crashing and burning, but is capable of the most incredible stunts and adept at making the crowds gasp with its death-defying feats of grandeur.

And that’s why she writes love on her arm.

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