Matters of the Heart

Thump, thump; thump, thump

The deep bass of a heartbeat beckoned me closer, engaging in a nonconsensual dance with my ear drums. Wide-eyed and curious, I followed the other families through the vast exhibit hall, tall ceilings making me feel infinitely smaller in my six-year-old frame (Or maybe I was younger. I don’t know; those years are a blur, a blip in my memory bank that grows smaller with each passing year).

With each step, the thumping grew louder, matching the drum beat in my chest, anticipation mounting by the second. A mix of fear, intrigue, and excitement coursed through me. I distinctly remember the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as if they were attempting to leap right out of their follicles, though at the time, the sensation was completely new to me. It felt like I was being tickled by a ghost.

My quick pace slowed to a crawl as doubt crept in. I don’t know about this. Do we really have to go in there? Can’t we just go back to the water exhibit, where it’s safe, and fun, and much quieter?

A familiar hand cupped the back of my head, snapping me from my escape plan and ushering me closer to the thumping, which at this point pulsed through the bottoms of my new lace-up shoes.

“Come on, girl. Walk up!” my mom said.

I’m a big girl, I reminded myself. I can do this.

I begrudgingly entered the exhibit room to find the culprit behind the incessant rhythm: a massive replica of the anatomical heart laying on its side. It must’ve been at least twenty feet tall, a behemoth that swallowed my then tiny stature. Inside the room, the thumping was deafening. I could barely hear my fear screaming for an exit.

So I stood there, in half awe, half despair, not entirely sure what to do next. I watched as the other kids clamored about, climbing on chambers, jumping from ventricles, crawling inside the aorta to see what treasures laid inside. I, on the other hand, was frozen still, eyes wide, sweat decorating my forehead.

“Go on and play! Go inside!” my mom encouraged, trying her best to infuse me with an excitement that had long exited my system.

I remained frozen, both captivated by the sight and scared shitless at the dark caverns and ceaseless noise, my two archnemeses. I despised loud sounds then. Fireworks, trains, the thundering crescendo of the THX audio tag before films, and even the sound of a toilet flushing were all enough to evoke a strong fear within me. Loudness felt menacing, overbearing, like any wrong move could mean sudden death, like I was being set up for a sneak attack.

Darkness felt the same: uncertain, sinister, life-threatening. It had a presence all on its own, breathing, pulsing, living its primordial truth. Even back then, I was intimidated by the dark’s power. I knew I didn’t stand a chance. I made it my mission to avoid her at all costs.

So, with the heart’s beat pounding in my tiny ear drums and the dark arterial tunnels whispering certain death, I decided against exploring the exhibit, convinced that if I went inside, I’d never return. I remember having a quick back-and-forth with my mom. Her giving me a pep talk about bravery and potential fun and something about making memories. Me not really listening, tears streaming down my face, already making up in my mind that whatever laid inside would certainly be my demise.

With a sigh, my mother grabbed my hand and led me to the water exhibit. Back to the quiet, back to where it was safe, back to where my watery moon felt at home.

I didn’t know it then, but this experience changed my brain chemistry, locking opinions and beliefs in place like puzzle pieces. That giant heart, meant to be a fun, interactive kids’ exhibit, represented much more to my subconscious.

It was an early test from the Universe on grit, on courage, on divine trust, and I had failed. And I’ve paid for that failure every day of my life since. Not in a punitive way, but in the way my feelings lodge themselves in my throat, the way affection and intimacy feel like a bartering chip, the way suppressing my tears has become second nature, the way opening up feels like actual torture, the way only solitude and silence feel like home.

Avoiding that thumping monstrosity at the museum sent me down a treacherous path. Can’t go in there; it’s too dark and scary and loud, my young impressionable mind decided, relegating that space as a no-no zone. And without even realizing it, I made the same conclusion about my own heart, though I could push aside those thumps with Bratz dolls, Lion King, and the contents of my mom’s makeup bag. I could run from that darkness with no one there to convince me otherwise. I could retreat to the safety of my mind, my proverbial water exhibit, where everything is light and fun and only as serious as I decided to make it.

The heart, though? I decided then that the heart couldn’t be trusted. Somehow I knew that what laid inside would break me open, expose my innards, swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful. Of course, I didn’t have the language for these feelings of existential dread back then, but my soul knew the power that lived inside my chest. It was intimately aware of the primordial, ancestral authority that commanded my attention from day one. But I wasn’t ready to wield it then. I was too timid, too unsure of myself in this new meat suit called Lyric.

It took years of making my way through the dark and facing the loudness that laid inside to get to where I am now: ready to explore the heart of who I was always meant to be.