Somewhere outside the park, a series of loud cracks, the echos of a shotgun. A flock of geese who just a moment ago were happily resting in one of the baseball fields rises in collective flight, that of both kinds–floating in the air with wings spread wide but also fleeing.
The sound of their honking, loud and panicked and fast, excites the dogs, both of them pull and strain against their harness and leads, wanting to go faster, to chase, to catch up. When the geese are directly overhead, the force of their wings against the cold morning air makes them sound like a swarm of gigantic bumble bees.
What is your heart’s wish?
With every beat my heart wishes to experience and manifest more love, but besides more love, its wish is: to write a book, many books, to string words together like prayer flags or mala beads, to live the life of a writer, quiet and solitude and reading and long walks and up early and dogs at my side or curled up at my feet, and thinking and dreaming and imagining, and having long conversations about how and why, and love, love, love, and the tenderhearted wise sadness of being present and of knowing how love goes and how things are and how this works, and grief and letting go and surrender, and friendship, and moving not the way fear makes me move but the way love makes me move, and allowing my “soft animal body to love what it loves,” and meditation and rumination and contemplation, step by step and word by word, being still and listening with my whole heart, being curious and gentle, saying only what is true and helpful and kind, being fearless in that way that gives a gift of the same to others so that they too can notice and manifest their basic goodness, to wholeheartedly live a full life and write about it…this is my heart’s wish.
My heart also wishes for flight, and no matter how often or carefully I explain the laws of physics and the impossibility of a wingless lump of muscle and blood floating on the air, it insists and continues to dream that it will one day wake with wings and fly away. It says that hope is not the thing with feathers at all, love is, and that its capacity for love will be the magic that makes it soar, that unhinges it from this mortal, ground-bound body. And I must admit, kind and gentle reader, sometimes I get caught up in the fire of its faith and find myself almost believing it.