Fair warning … heartache ahead

Here it is, Wednesday already. I'm still reeling from the shock of an extraordinarily painful weekend.

Sometimes, life just throws you off balance. We know this about life. We've come to expect it. We even plan for it so when it happens we right ourselves fairly quickly, almost effortlessly. A therapist of mine, back in the day, helped me to understand this by offering an observation made by sports psychologists … "The difference between the elite athlete and the Olympic athlete is the amount of time taken to recover from something going wrong." I took that message to heart and began to practice purposely righting myself again and again by attempting difficult yoga poses that were just out of my reach. I failed again and again. Each time, I brushed off the internal critic that never misses an opportunity to remind me that I am imperfect … no, utterly flawed. I got very good at recovering quickly on the yoga mat. I improved my recovery time off the mat, too. Satisfied that I had reached Olympian levels of rebounding, I began to believe that there was very little that life could throw at me that would knock me down and keep me there.

This past weekend has knocked the wind out of me. I'm on my feet but wobbling like a Weeble.

The trouble is that I received tragic and shocking news from two dear friends, each far away, one right after the other. In the first instance, a longtime dear friend suffered the senseless loss of his 20-year old son in an auto accident. There was no alcohol or drug involvement, no speeding, no reckless driving. There was ice on the road. There was an oncoming 18-wheeler. No need to go into details (they are gory.) Simply know that this young man was a model son, student, athlete, brother, and friend. His life was taken prematurely. My heart has no way to process my friend's loss. I am left with a surreal sensation that somehow the whole thing is a cruel hoax.

In the second instance, I received word from another dear longtime friend that he had slipped into a deep depression that had him considering suicide. This friend has struggled mightily with depression for his entire adult life. He has reached his seventies in spite of his regular "obsessions with suicide." Himself, a model of goodness, generosity, tolerance, and compassion, he bears the tragedy of a complicated imbalance of important natural substances in his brain intended to maintain rational thought and boost positive emotion. As a result, his inner critic is often relentless and cruel, causing him to see darkness rather than light and feel defeat in spite of his many successes.

My heart knows there is nothing it can do in either case to reduce the suffering of my friends. Because of this, my heart has made a pact with my brain … "Keep me from feeling and I will reward you." As my intellect, like everyone's, prioritizes rational thought over gut feeling, this deal is a "no brainer" for my brain. The outcome … a detour has been installed on the major neurological thoroughfare connecting my heart and my head. In other words, when overwhelming feelings begin to arise from my heart, my brain simply refuses to register them. The best I can do is register confusion and uncertainty.

"Why?" asks my heart.
My brain replies, "Huh?"

This goes on and on. Heart and brain both know they've made a pact. Yet, my heart still questions incessantly.  My brain, the loyal protector, plays dumb: "I don't know what you're talking about. Hey! Check out that pretty shiny thing right over there."

My heart aches. It wants to undo the pact with my brain. But, how? Tears flow now, readily … steadily. My brain strains to regain the upper hand but it's too late. The ocean of my emotion roils.

I dreamed of a tidal wave last night. Everything ... everything was washed away. All that remained was a quiet calm. I suppose I am righting myself on some deep level. Slowly. Surely. My heart is speaking.

This past weekend has taught me that I am no emotional Olympian. I am, however, a loving, caring friend … spilling tears … expressing fears … and breaking my heart … wide open … for the sake of my friends. I am breaking the pact with my intellect so that I might connect with their broken hearts in the deepest, darkest hours … just before dawn.

Our hearts are wise and vulnerable and courageous. They suffer shock and they recoil … but they come back on line … eventually. They seek understanding. They offer compassion. They right themselves. They right the world when given the chance. Let's give our hearts a chance.

After all, as Milan Kundera offers in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, “When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object.”