The song of our heart is ever-close, ever-here, ever-beating beneath the breast of this moment.
If we think we’ve lost our song, if we think it’s flown away, if we think it’s two blocks down and sitting in a stranger’s living room…
Or, preferably, don’t think at all.
The song of our heart hums its never-ending melodies in the key of Joy, over and over again. The variety of notes it sings is endless, but beneath it all we trill to harmonies the world of repetitive or reactive thought never dreams.
Where, you ask, hides my song?
Find it, sweet dove.
In this moment, let your energy drop into your open heart. Let the corners of your lips curve toward the sun. Feel your tension drain away, like rain into the earth of parched soil. If you still can’t feel it, this dancing electricity, recall the last moment of joy or unbridled happiness which filled you like a harvest feast.
If you can pull it back into memory, into your curved lips, into your soft heart, into your gentle knowing, you may feel a river of joy begin to flow through the veins, oh no, never captured by the veins, overflowing the veins, overflowing the waters of your body, filling the room, filling the neighborhood, filling your city, filling your planet, exceeding your planet, joy, endless joy, that which is everything before you breathed your first breath and before you’ll breathe your last breath, and everything in between, too, don’t forget washing dishes and getting dressed in the morning and the everyday movement of daylight.
It’s that immediate.
It’s your song.
It’s always here, beneath the villages of thought and belief that form into patterns which chitter and chatter and describe and limit and expand and draw boundaries and get confused and feel frustrated and disturbed and sulk in the corner, exhausted from trying to Figure it all Out.
Joy does not Figure it all Out.
Your heart song of delight is nothing mysterious, nothing absent, nothing remote, nothing difficult to find.
You may have to call it to your side like an errant puppy who’s escaped and gone rolling in mud and dashed through your kitchen, upsetting everything, including the jar of flour.
You may have to re-member the song, to call its notes back into this precious moment, this moment made of words and wind, this moment made of flour and mud, this moment made of a thousand notes of the song of your heart, jumbled together, a blessed and mysterious celestial choir singing through the notes of your breathing pulsing chrysalis of your gratitude.