One Pulse

And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils. :: William Wordsworth ::

Sometimes when I’m sitting down, I feel a pulse beating in my kneecap, in my thigh, in my rib, in my ear, in my hip, or in my heel.

Knowing that adverse forces and energies abound, I always check to be sure that it is beating in time with my heart and not some lingering, unresolved etheric imprint that longs to be recognized though it is doomed to an eternal limbo of unfulfilled wishes.

As soon as I’ve confirmed that it is my own drum song pumping through my veins, pushing through my skin, and greeting the molecules that exist all around us (and simultaneously within us), I return to creating with reverence and without fear, doubt, or concern for what exists beyond the infinity of the fleeting moment.

(which is always now...)

and now
and now

and now

n o w

- -
-

.


I wonder if I myself have become the organ that decides whether we flat line or we dance everyday--

one big pulsing heart: me.


My legs curl up to my chest to become the right and left atria, my fingers and toes are the pulmonary veins, my throat the pulmonic valve, my right arm is now the left ventricle, my left arm is now the right ventricle, my eyes part ways to share the tasks of the superior and inferior vena cavas without any damage done to my multidirectional vision...

In fact, my vision seems to have improved dramatically in the wake of this self-administered reconstructive surgery. I see beyond the illusion to what is really there now: fields upon fields of wildflowers and berries, dolphins chatting in water fountains, children teaching their parents the right way to tie their shoe laces, awkward lovers stealing kisses, grandparents blowing bubbles for a laugh, air sylphs and faeries healing the weary with a breeze, eyes winking, heels clicking, pacemakers resuscitating, drunken poets ruminating...

It’s been there all along, but now I know the only access we have to that ecstatic dimension is through the heart.

And so I’ve decided to give up all the rest--no need for any nervous, respiratory, or digestive system; no need for any other organ or muscle; no need for clothes or false pretenses now that I’ve surrendered to the most vulnerable and illuminating instrument we’ve each been trusted with for the duration of our journey.

If I should meet a doctor on this train who’s checking for a pulse, this I’ll say:

Forget the wrist, forget my neck; touch me here.