my heart

as donna haraway reminds us, we are all cyborgs now. when i put words on this screen i do not think about making them appear. my fingers find their ways not even lagging behind the words as i articulate them mentally. my thoughts are in fact made possible by the ways the words appear on this screen, the rapidity with which i can make changes to those words…the words have a lightness unlike ink on a page. i do not commit to screen words as quickly, and i am not as loath to scratch them out, for fear of marring the beauty of a perfect page.

thich nhat hanh explains that Christ aimed to shake his disciples into awareness by saying to them “this is my body you eat. this is my blood you drink.” what are Christ’s words but a koan, begging those who receive the Eucharist to allow themselves to be overcome by the question: “what is a body?”

like haraway, and like Christ, i find it valuable to talk about the interbeing of individual bodies, and in effect, the non-existence of the individual body, by talking about the reality of the body.

…

what, i ask, is a heart?

…

we all know it is real enough

when i say the word

“heart”

alone…not de-contextualized, but without context…i invoke the multiple meanings of this word simultaneously–an internal organ that sustains and counts out life, an imagined organ of feeling or caring or loving, the center or “core” (from the French “coeur”) of a thing–and the word is the heart of “heart.” the word is more than a symbol. and it is even more than a concept. it is just…”heart.”

…

when people touch my heart, i create.

over the years, i have made many beautiful things, with such care, for many people. for that reason i own almost none of the pieces of artwork i have crafted, labored over…called “done.”

the feelings in my artwork are always honest and inviolable. i never regret laboring long over a piece or giving it to the person for whom i crafted it. but i have noticed that i become very tired and sad as i give away my heart, or pieces of it, again, and again. even as i think and write the word “heart” here, my chest becomes heavy and tight. these overlapping meanings of “heart” are not a coincidence…they describe the truth as they create the truth…bridges amongst an imagined core, an imagined source of feeling, an organ in the chest, and physical sensation…

this weekend i have the chance to display my artwork at western ave studios open studio, but i have nothing to show. because it is gone and i do not know when i will see any of it again. i made a ruby ring. the ruby was surrounded by flames of brass, covering a silver background. i gave it to a man eight years ago. i haven’t seen it since. i’ve seen him once. i made a silver ring, a design inspired by a ring from the silmarillion, for my father…my masterpiece. lost in london seven years ago. three necklaces gone. three people gone. a staff, made with such love, i will never see again. i don’t know how many drawings.

the journal i painted more recently is out there…and i am waiting for it to return.

i send pieces of my heart out in this way, because it is the purest me. the core of me. and it feels natural. it is a beautiful, naked, fragile act of faith. my art says: “will you be kind and thoughtful enough to cherish me, though it is easy to forget me?”

when i receive nothing to fill the empty spots i feel just a little weakened and betrayed.

my chest tightens and becomes heavy. as it is now.

thankfully, over the last ten years, i have learned to be my own strength, to cherish and appreciate myself, to replenish, calm and heal my heart.

my heart filled by (an)other(s)…truly…not a mirage: it doesn’t make life better, worse, or more interesting. but it does make me cry.