Not Quite So Stressed Out

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About a week ago, I wrote a post about how stressed I was. I have never been that stressed in my life. I literally could not think, and my body was shutting down.

Stress is an odd beast. I was in a vicious cycle of stress isolating me, and then feeling isolated because I was stressed. I felt like I was drowning and utterly alone. I was so stressed the idea of asking for help didn’t occur to me.

But God didn’t abandon me, even though my spiritual ears felt stuffed with cotton wool. I had this idea to write down all the things that I know relax me or calm me down. One of the things is writing, which led to my blog post. People began sending me encouraging messages, and the isolation began to shatter.

It wasn’t until I started reaching out with a desperate blog post, and actually sitting down with people and saying “I don’t know what the heck I’m doing” that I could even entertain the idea that oh, people can help. From this I learned, get another brain or five involved when yours isn’t working. All you have to say is, “My brain isn’t working.”

I also realized that sometimes my brain gets so worked up, I have to physically relax before my brain will calm down. So that afternoon I went for a run, which is scientifically proven to release endorphins that calm you down. I did as many things as I could that I know relax me: Read a novel. Listened to music. Laid on the floor. Cracked open some lavender and balsam fir essential oils. Just breathed. Stretched. Had a hot shower. Once my body relaxed, my brain could finally be open to solutions instead of thinking “I’M STRESSED I’M STRESSED I’M STRESSED I’M STRESSED.”  

That’s when I noticed the expectation I’ve placed on myself, that circumstances shouldn’t affect my emotions. “Be joyful always”, “Give thanks in all circumstances”, “[You will be given] peace that transcends all understanding”. All these phrases are in the Bible, and I thought it meant that feelings were irrelevant. But that’s not true. Yes, God is our rock. Yes, the Holy Spirit’s joy is present in every part of life. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t emotionally be affected by losing a job, annoying people, or even a week of rain. Circumstances do affect my emotions, and that’s ok. In fact, it’s possible to have the peace of God AND be stressed out of your mind. I experienced that last week, because a part of me knew that it was going to be ok, knew that I was being held securely in God’s hands, despite how awful I felt. Circumstances can affect my emotions, but they don’t change the Truth.

P.S. Thank you to all of you who sent me encouraging messages, prayed for me, talked with me and let me dump some of my stresses on you. Thank you for proving that my feelings of isolation are a lie. You’re awesome.

Obsessions

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Just Tired

I am so incredibly tired of working.

And I feel horribly guilty and ashamed of that.

“How can you expect to eat if you don’t work?” “Everyone has to do things they don’t like.” “Suck it up, princess.” “Show initiative.” “You can’t expect people to know what you’re thinking unless you tell them.”

I am so incredibly tired of being responsible and bearing responsibility. Tired of taking initiative. I just want to sleep and let someone take care of me.

“But you’re an adult now. Take care of yourself.”

So tired.

It’s not that I don’t like working.

I’m just tired of bearing responsibility. In my brain. In my body. In my feelings.

Exhausted.

I want to love work again. Work brings money. Work brings security. Work brings recognition. Work brings fame. Work brings glory to God. Work brings satisfaction. Work, work, work.

If you don’t work, what are you?

If I don’t work, who am I?

Knowledge

I scroll through Facebook, reading this interesting article and that interesting blog post.

I check Messenger incessantly, craving news of my friends.

I read the news often.

When I’m sad, I distract myself by learning new things.

I blog and introspect to learn new things about myself.

I ask God for words of wisdom and guidance.

I am addicted to knowledge.

It is my brain’s defense mechanism. Keep me so busy, so distracted by new interesting tidbits and sound bytes, and drown out what my heart is saying. Let the chatter of knowing stifle the groans of my sore, sad heart. Stave off hurt by learning distraction. Stay away from the dark scary places of my soul by reading, writing, knowing.

But what if the reason God is silent is because the knowledge I need is already there. . . But somehow it has been blocked on its journey into  (or out of?) the heart. I don’t need more knowledge. I need more – something. I don’t need more water. I need less dam. 

Stressed Out

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I have this expectation of myself that I’m supposed to live life calm, tranquil and peaceful inside. Stress, anxiety and worry mean that I’m not trusting God, and I’m not a very good Christian.

As a child I was worried. What if the house burns down? What if my parents die? What if my pet budgie flies away? What if there’s a war? Fear characterized my childhood. I was happy, but it was always there. Then I learned more of the Bible, and read verses like, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and petition present your requests to God, and the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” “Cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you.” Both of those I can write out by memory. I knew that worry was bad. It made me feel awful, and God didn’t like it. The trick was to trust God, and stop worrying because He’s in control.

So as I grew older, whenever I felt afraid or worried, I would quote those verses to myself and remember how big God is, and that He’s got my life in His hands. By sheer willpower, the stress would be overcome. Hah! Take that, stress! We win!

About a month ago, I was feeling uneasy, because once again, stress was threatening to take over. I tried focusing on Jesus. I quoted the verses. But nothing seemed to help. “Why am I so stressed??” I wondered. Was I not trusting God enough?

Then I sat down and looked at my life. In the past month I

·         said long-term goodbyes to three dear friends

·         lived in five different places

·         looked for, found and lost an apartment

·         experienced extreme financial stress

·         had a couple cases of interpersonal conflict with people close to me

·         received a bunch of ideas for jobs and turned them down for various reasons

·         our pet budgie of ten years died

and I had no idea what to do with my future.

I felt like I wasn't trusting God enough, but when I looked at the list, I wondered why I wasn’t feeling more stressed. I congratulated myself for not being a blubbering mess, because honestly, my life IS stressful right now! Good, now that we had that out of the way, I could acknowledge stress and move on with my life.

A week ago, my body started acting up. I have dark circles under dry, scratchy eyes. My sinuses felt congested. My skin is itchy, and it’s not easy to breathe. At first, I thought it was allergies. But as far as I know, I’m only allergic to cinnamon. My muscles were also super tight, and I found myself sighing a lot. My jaw is constantly clenched. The old fear returned at night, and I became irrationally afraid of things I haven’t thought about since I was a child. Two nights ago, I woke up choking and coughing, heart racing, too scared to go back to sleep.

It looks like stress has caught up to my body.

And the worst is that I don’t know how to stop being stressed. I’m stressed about being stressed.

On top of all this stress, heaven remained silent. I could barely pray, because my brain feels so fuzzy, and I don’t know what to say. God didn’t tell me anything to do or make this better. I feel like an awful Christian. I’ve failed, because I’m stressed and worried and not trusting God enough. Desperately, I try to shove my stress away to prove to God that I’m trusting Him. Somehow, I got this idea that stress is a shameful thing, something God hates.

I wish I had it all together. I wish I knew the answers on this one. But I don’t.

What I do know, is that life is stressful. And that the presence of stress doesn’t mean that peace is absent. It’s possible to be stressed and have peace.

I think those verses, about trusting God, are actually about not giving into fear. Which is a very different thing from not feeling stressed. Even Jesus experienced stress; he was so stressed he sweat blood. 

God doesn’t expect me to be stress-free all the time. Breathe it in, my soul, and know that you don’t have to stop your stressing for God to love you. Stress doesn’t show a lack of faith; it shows that you are living a stressful transition time. Don’t try run away or pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s ok. It won’t last forever.

When God Doesn’t Provide the Money

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I had heard the stories of God’ miraculous provision of finances for outreach, for rent, for plane tickets and for projects. Sometimes it came in a silk envelope. Sometimes a friend gave an amount, and it was exactly what was needed. Sometimes, an offering was taken that mysteriously expanded. But I had lived a safe, well-provisioned life. My parents are very wise with their finances, and we had never lacked. They taught me well, and I knew how to save and how to spend wisely.

When I left to do my Discipleship Training School (DTS), I only had $2000, a third of what I would need for the lecture phase and outreach. But I told my parents I wanted to place myself in a position where I would have to trust God, and allow him to provide for me financially. So they let me go.

I watched, anxious and then delighted, as God provided the money for my lecture phase through donations from friends and family. We came to outreach, and I received some of what I needed. The day before we were meant to leave, I was still $2000 short. I knew God would provide, but the tension of HOW was driving me crazy. To say I was stressed was an understatement. The next day, there was no mail. No miraculous cash in my Bible. I called my parents, wondering what to do. They decided to give me a loan of $2000. I was happy to have the money for outreach. But I was miffed at God. Why did I have to get a loan? Why didn’t He provide?

That was when I realized that God did provide, but not in the way I wanted him to.

Fast forward. I came home from DTS and worked to pay off my loan. Then God prompted me to do the School of Digital Filmmaking also with YWAM. I had less money in my account than when I left for DTS. But knowing that God wanted me to go, and trusting that he would provide, I jumped on a plane yet again. My parents said they were done with giving me loans. That was ok, because I was confident God would provide what I needed this time.

It was a similar story this time. I received about half of what I needed from donations. The deadline to pay grew nearer, and nothing happened. So I went to my sister for a loan, knowing this time that God could provide through loans just as much as donations. Once again, I was annoyed at God. Why was he allowing me to go into debt again? Didn’t he know that debt is bad?

Fast-forward again. I finished the school, and came home. This time I was $3000 in debt to my sister, ready to work and pay it off. That’s when God said, Don’t get a job. WHAT??? Jesus, are you CRAZY?! I did what he said, ‘cause it’s always a good idea to follow what God tells you. Through this time, God taught me a lot about how to trust him with my debt, and to rest.

Then I felt like I should do the School of Acting for the Screen, in the same place as I did my filmmaking school. My family thought I was nuts. I was $3000 in debt and I wanted to do another school? But they were used to me doing wacky things by this point, so off I went. My grandmother gave me a sizable monetary gift, as did a couple I knew, and I received a grant from my hometown council. But I still had a few thousand dollars to go. Maybe, I thought, maybe God will finally come through, and provide everything in a miraculous way. We prayed as a school. Multiple times. I waited, and waited, and waited. It never came in.

After living on the base for a while, completing the School of Acting for the Screen, and doing an internship, I added all my debts together.

It came to $6000.

That was hard to swallow.

Did my experiment fail? Was I foolish for trusting God so much? Was I even listening to God correctly? Didn’t God know debt was unwise??

Frantically, I started planning ways I could work: Picking blueberries or grapes. Getting a job at a restaurant in town. Writing blog pieces for money. But each time I moved in that direction, I felt restless, uneasy and even more stressed than before. It seemed like God was saying “no” to my good ideas to pay off the debt. WHAT?

I began to ask why. Why was I so far in debt? Had I been reckless? Then a friend said something that changed my perspective, “You’re not in debt because you’re irresponsible, you’re in debt because you’re obedient and that’s a good kind of debt to have.” I’m in debt because I was following God. If He got me into this mess, then He can get me out again.

Through this process, I have learned that being in debt is not the worst thing in the world. God can and does work, even when my bank account is below $0. I knew that I trusted God up until there was nothing in my account, but did I trust him enough to go beyond $0? I do now. Even debt is not an obstacle to God providing or working.

It’s still not fun. I would much rather be out of debt. But now I trust that will happen in God’s timing, not mine.

What You Have

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I graduated from Acting School a couple months ago.

My classmates and friends have gone home.

I have no job, blueberry picking fell through.

I'm $6000 in debt.

And I don't know what to do with my life.

My parents are wondering when I will get steady work, income.

My friends are wondering "What's next?"

And I'm freaking out about the future.

It's morning. I take out a carton of eggs from the refrigerator, and crack one into the fry pan. Now there are ten spaces. I'm running out. My brain starts turning: I don't have a car. How do I get to the store to buy more eggs? How do I pay for more eggs, with my account so low? The egg sizzles in the pan. I look back at the carton, and then I realize. There are still two eggs left.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in planning for the future, I miss the present. I get so worked up about what I don't have that I miss seeing what I do have.

I resolve to eat breakfast and enjoy the egg in front of me, without thinking about those ten empty spaces. I start to see the blue sky and the green vineyards behind the place that I'm house-sitting. Tall, yellow flowers separate the back yard from the rolling green hills. I breathe deeply.

I have a house to stay in. I have warmth, a roof over my head, and internet to stream endless music. I have cupboards and a fridge with food in them.

I have friends all over the world, and I have Skype and Messenger to talk with them.

I have books to read. I have imagination, creativity, and skills in sewing, writing and acting. I have eyes that can see beauty. I have hot showers and legs to walk me places and parents who care about me. I have time.

It's evening, I open the cupboard. Instead of looking at the empty spaces on the shelves, I look at what's in front of me. Black beans. Canned tomato. Rice. I find a whole bunch of spices, and there's cilantro in the garden, so I make chili. It tastes great, and I don't feel nearly as stressed as I did that morning.

I've learned something. Real creativity and satisfaction starts with acknowledging what you have.

After all, you can't do anything with what you don't have.

Why So Serious? Part II

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Why am I so serious?

Like I said in my previous blog post, I like to ask deep questions that get to the heart of things. I like to discover what lies beneath the surface of people, of issues, of ideas. I have a hard time with things that I perceive as superficial. I want real meat, not meringue fluff. I probe, I question, I consider.

And sometimes I obsess. I don’t like that about myself, because people often find it annoying. For example, when I was 11, I became obsessed with goldfish. I read books about them. I saved up money to buy a fish tank. I talked about them at the dinner table so often that my family banned the four-letter F word. That’s just one example of my obsessions. I’ll get distracted reading internet articles about emotional and spiritual abuse for days on end, simply because it’s something I’m interested in. I fixate on a specific area of my life that I want to improve on, and it occupies like 90% of my brain space for months. It annoys other people when I’m always repeating the same things, so I’ve learned to not talk about my obsessions and simply keep them to myself. I’ve often wondered why I just can’t let go.

Why can’t I just CHILL? Sometimes I obsess so much about relaxing, that I get worked up while I’m supposed to be resting.

Why do I get so worked up about things?

Because I care.

I care deeply about things and people. When I do something, I do it 100%, all in. I don’t like doing things halfway.

I take things seriously because I care.

And that is a beautiful thing.

I think the reason it bothers me so much when people would tell me to calm down, to relax, to chill, is because that translated to “stop caring”. When people were acting frivolous or shallow, it annoyed me because I thought they “didn’t care”. I’ve been deeply hurt in the past because I care a lot about something that the other person flippantly throws away, or doesn’t care about to the same degree as me. Group projects were torture to me, because often my partner wouldn’t approach the assignment with the same amount of energy, enthusiasm or caring as I did.

All that caring makes me tired. I burn out quickly when I give all of myself, but don’t take time to rest. Or allow myself to be cared for. I can tell when I’ve reached the danger zone and my tank is empty, because I don’t care about anything anymore. That’s when I know I have to stop and recharge.

How do I relax? How do I chill, if I care so much?

The answer is knowing that God cares even more than I do. He cares more about the people I love than I do. He cares more about hard situations and problems than me. He cares about smaller details than I can ever see. He cares about things I don’t even care about, like the hairs on my head and sparrows and bringing rain to far-off places.

Because HE cares so much, I can relax, knowing things are being taken care of. I can rest in His care, for me, and for others. 

Why So Serious? Part 1

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“Let’s go around the circle and tell each person something we like about them.”

We were halfway through the ‘game’ my friend had suggested, and now it was my turn in the hot seat. My heart started to beat a little faster in anticipation of what people would say. When my vibrant actress-friend praised my ability with words, the way they’ve brought her comfort and wisdom, my heart swelled. Then the next person, a fun guy who everyone loves being around, turned to me. He said “I really appreciate your seriousness.”

I was bummed.

Outside I smiled, but inwardly I was annoyed. Of all my character traits, why did he have to focus on the one I like the least? Why couldn’t he talk about traits I like: sweetness, vulnerability or intellect?

I have long hated my seriousness. When I was in my early teens at Drama or Choir rehearsals, it was the people who could crack jokes, tell funny stories or do magic tricks who would attract crowds of people. Very few people were attracted to the deep thoughts and questions I had to offer. My comments about random facts I found interesting would fall on deaf ears.

I wanted to really get to know people, hear their stories and learn what their big dreams were and discover what makes their eyes shine and their hearts tick. But others were more interested in making quick-witted comments about one another and laughing at ridiculous jokes. So I learned that if I wanted attention, wanted to be part of the group, I’d have to play along.

This gave me a kind of split personality. Some days, I would fake being funny, joking and laughing along with the others. But it wasn’t MY kind of humour; it was theirs. Other days, I would look at the group with disdain. How immature they were, laughing about the ridiculous, not talking about Important Things or ideas of Real Substance. So I became both overly serious and fakely funny.

This continued until my college years, where I let the fake funny mask drop. Funny wasn’t working for me, so I devoted all my energy to being a Serious Responsible Person.

My hypothesis that nobody likes a wet blanket and people like being around those who are the life of the party seemed to be further confirmed by more interactions with friends who were charming and amusing. Those friends seemed to always have people around them, like bees around a pool of honey. That kind of humour seemed far out of my grasp. Nobody seemed to find me charming or interesting, and I reckoned that’s because I was so serious. So I’ve worked on trying to relax, to be more chill, to not always direct conversations toward deep topics and to be cool with the superficial. I’d come a long way. But I still felt like my seriousness was a curse and a crutch.

And yet, here my friend was praising me for the very character trait I’ve tried so hard to get rid of. I was ticked off. But I smiled and said thank you anyway.

It wasn’t until later that night when my friend’s words finally sunk in. He LIKES my seriousness. What?? That blew my mind. He appreciates the very thing that I have despised for years.

I had such a hard time believing this was true, that a week later I asked him if he really meant what he said. Of course he did. And then he said something that I’ve been pondering ever since. “Lyndall, you need to own it.” Own my seriousness. Don’t try to play it down or ignore it or get rid of it.

This article is part of the process, part of me owning my seriousness. As I write, I realize things. Humans have incredibly fine-tuned BS meters. We can detect the tiniest hint of inauthenticity on a subconscious level. For years I have been trying to squeeze myself into boxes that I don’t fit into, either the Funny Person box or the Super Serious Person box. But people are most attracted to those individuals who are comfortable in their own skins, who are most fully themselves.

It wasn’t my lack of funny that turned people off. It was the masks I wore. If they were attracted, it wasn’t ME they were attracted to. It was a mask. When love or attention or affection is dependent on how well I can keep a mask in place, life is a hellish prison. Every move must keep the mask in place, or else I risk losing everything I’ve worked for. I know this is a bad idea, but I didn’t realize I was doing this with my personality until my friend somehow saw through the mask and said he liked my seriousness.

So I’m ditching the Super Serious Person mask, and I’m ditching the Funny Person mask. I’m going to be me. I am serious. And I’m not going to hide it, despise it, or push it down any more. I’m gonna own it.

This Heart

I have loved

and lost

and found that the heart

is more resilient

than I ever dreamed.

The times I thought

my heart was breaking

were really

stretching,

growing pains.

And so this agony

oh, so familiar bitter emptiness

feels like the end.

Yet—

I am familiar with the dark

And I did not die.

I will survive

and thrive

this time too.

Set Me Free

I am so done with oppression
repression
depression

legalism
should

being the responsible one
the model student
the conscientious girl


I just want to be
LYNDALL;
live fully in who God made me to be
No blocks

living in freedom
living in love
living


no more rules
no more "11 Questions to Ask Yourself Before You Hug Him"
no more 'guard your heart' with fear and logic

this heart wants OUT
this heart wants to love
this heart wants to EXPRESS
this heart wants freedom
this heart wants connection

The Garden (A first draft)

Once upon a time there was a girl who was entrusted with the care of a fresh, new garden. It was a pretty, delicate space, with young saplings and little clumps of bulbs and small twigs of perennial bushes. Thin, sparse blades poked through the brown earth, needling timidly out of the ground. It was a land full of promise and expectation, beautiful in its own way, but promising greater richness, fullness and splendour.

The girl was awed and intimidated by the weight of the gift she had been given. She loved the garden, its quiet spaces and its new life. As she talked with others, they were happy for her, and offered her some advice. They told her to watch out for the deer who liked to eat fresh buds, and the men who liked to trample the ground, slashing trees and uprooting bushes. The girl was afraid, so she turned to the books in her library for advice. Each one recommended something slightly different: a hedge, a fence, a wall. That would protect the plants from the marauders and intruders.

And so the girl began to build. Thick, white bricks. Taller and taller the wall grew, and the townspeople nodded in approval. This girl was smart. She knew how to take care of her garden. True, they could no longer see the dogwood and the apple blooming, but surely it was better that the trees WOULD bloom, and that the wall could give them an opportunity to do so. Besides, thought the girl, she could tear down the wall once the garden was well-established and the trees and plants would no longer be in danger from vandals or wild beasts.

Finally, the wall was complete, and the girl could rest easy, knowing her garden was safe. She spent many days, tending to the trees and flowers inside the quiet safety of the wall.

After a time, she realized how very silent and lonely it was behind the wall. She heard the thrum and hum of the town beyond the wall, and realized how very selfish and isolated she had been. And so she knocked a hole in the wall, and built a gate. She created paths through the garden, placed low chain barriers on either side of the paths, and set up park benches. Then she flung wide the gates and proclaimed to the townspeople that her garden was open. She brought them in by ones and twos and fives and tens. The townspeople oohed and ahhed at the beauty of the garden, and many found rest and restoration for their souls. The trees and flowers and bushes had grown larger and more glorious, and many began to bear fruit. The girl would pick the fruit and distribute it to her visitors, and many were refreshed. The girl was happy that she could share the garden with many, and allow them to experience its splendour. No longer was she lonely and isolated. Many townspeople came to visit with her, and she enjoyed their company.

And all was well.

For a time.

There was an expert gardener in the town who came often to visit the girls garden. He would sit and observe, and watch the plants sway in the breeze. He studied the plants from afar, for he knew to stay on the paths and not venture on to the grass. But as time went on, he saw things that made his eyes scrinch in concern. Something was amiss in the garden. The stems and stalks had to lengthen and lighten, and the leaves became pale. The plants were tall and green, but weak and gangly.

He approached the girl. The wall, he said, had to go. It was blocking the light, and the plants were not able to grow as strong and whole as they ought. Sunshine. The garden needed to be opened to sunshine.

The girl blanched. The walls were there for a very good reason. They kept out the marauders and the wild beasts. And they kept the townspeople from wandering wherever they pleased. What if they wished to pick fruit for themselves? That would not do. No, it would not do at all. And so the girl politely asked the gardener to leave.

Months passed, and the trees and bushes and plants and flowers grew taller and spindlier. One night, there was a storm, and much of the flora, too tall for their roots, collapsed. The next day, the girl walked among the garden, tightness in her chest and prickles in her eyes. No, this garden was not healthy. And so, that day, she invited the gardener back, and together they pulled down the wall, brick by brick. The townspeople watched with interest. Some were skeptical, and warned her that she was a fool; the wild beasts and the wild men would have free range now that the wall was gone.

The day after the wall came completely down, the very worst thing the girl could imagine happened. A band of vandals saw their opportunity and snuck into the garden late at night. But before they could break the first branch, a neighbour lady looked out the window, and saw shadows that ought not to be in a garden. Curiously, she came out to the step holding a lamp. Seeing the men of wicked intent, she yelled to her husband. Together, they stalked to the garden. The vandals fled.

The next day, the girl heard the story from her neighbour. The townspeople were glad to hear the vandals had been frightened away. Taking a deep breath, the girl invited the townspeople onto the lawn, to enjoy the garden, as thanks. As she watched her garden, she noticed deer creeping close to eat the tulip buds. But the townspeople spread out, giggling and laughing, delighting in the soft grass and the broad shade of the maples and the sweetness of mulberries, strawberries and currants. The deer bolted, and moved on to another place, disturbed by all the commotion.

And so the girl thanked the gardener for helping to remove the wall. The plants grew broad and strong and green and rich. The townspeople were enriched by the garden, and the girl was happy, for she never lacked companionship, joy or laughter. 

Girl and Heart - Part II

When the Surgeon arrived, the girl took him to where the heart was. He saw the enclosure, and sighed. “What have you done to your heart?”

The girl started talking about all the naughty things it had done: Yelling, screaming, chasing after boys, throwing tantrums, and escaping her enclosure. The Surgeon said nothing, but went into the pen with the heart. It barely twitched when he examined it. His hands were gentle, and the Heart seemed to relax under his touch.

When the surgeon came out, he handed the girl a pot of salve. He instructed her to spread it on the sores every day. And then he gave a warning. The heart would only improve a little with the salve; in order to be fully healed, it needed to be free.  

The girl protested. The fence was for her safety, and her heart’s. If she let it go free, who knew what kind of damage it would cause. For “All hearts are deceitful and evil. Even if they look nice and new, they WILL rebel. You must train them or else they will go crazy and destroy you.” The Great Surgeon’s face grew hard when he heard. He asked where she had learned about hearts. So the girl went and got the book. The Surgeon took the book and perused the pages. Then he ripped the pages, ten at a time. The girl yelled. How was she supposed to look after her heart now?

Calmly the Great Surgeon replied, “Do you doubt my work? The Hearts I touch are new. The old is gone.” He sat down with the girl and explained how to take good care of a heart. 

The next day the girl went into the enclosure. Timidly she took the chains off the heart, and brought it cushions and blankets to sit on. She gave the heart water and some food, and smeared the salve over its sores. It shrank away from her, but because it was weak, it couldn’t move very far.

Slowly, the heart regained strength. The sores disappeared. It regained flesh, and began to move around the enclosure. The girl knew the heart needed enrichment, so she gave it toys to play with. Sometimes she even went inside and watched it, timidly, while it was absorbed in play.

Weeks later, the Surgeon came back. Proudly, the girl led him to the enclosure, which was now filled with plants and comfortable places and toys. The heart had not yelled or made a fuss. It did not come up to her, but it allowed her nearer and nearer each day.

The Surgeon was pleased to see the heart was now healthier. It even seemed happy. But it was not free. Still, the girl kept it locked away, far from herself, and farther still from others.

So the Surgeon insisted, the heart must be let free. The girl fought back. The heart was happy. Why did it need freedom? Who knew what it would do out of the cage? Probably go running after guys again. Or talk about the other country. No, the heart would be much better off inside.

The surgeon left, and the girl left the heart in the cage.

Time passed.

The heart grew bored of the toys. It began digging up plants. It yowled loudly. It thumped hard against the fence, over and over and over, until it bled.

Finally, the girl saw the wisdom of the Surgeon. So timidly, she opened the lock, and let the door open just a crack. The heart saw its opportunity and barged out the door, smacking the girl in the face with the gate. Hurt, she stumbled back, and collapsed on the ground. The heart ran wild, yelling and screaming in joy and every pent up emotion it had ever felt. It tore around, knocking over precious ornaments and unloosening sacred things. The girl was angry and ran after the heart, but she could not catch it.

Why had she ever listened to the Surgeon? This was madness. The heart ran onto neighbouring properties, wreaking the same havoc there that she herself had experienced. Angry neighbours yelled at her to get her heart under control. But still the heart ran, exhilarated by its newfound freedom.

Yep, hearts were definitely rebellious and destructive. Was this not the proof?

But then the girl saw. SHE had caused this. If the heart had not been kept locked up, would it have the need to run so far, run so fast?

And so she wept.

And wept.

The heart turned, hearing a strange sound. The girl was weeping. Curious, it stopped running. It came closer. The girl watched through her tears.

Abruptly, the girl stood and went to the enclosure. She grabbed at the wire roof, and tried to yank it from its staples. The wires cut deep into her hands. So she grabbed a sledgehammer, and swung wildly. KITSSSHSSSSH, the wire roof went flying. BANG! BANG! BANG! The fence posts came down. CLANGGGG! The gate and the lock were smashed. The cage lay in ruins.

The girl sat, panting, exhausted, surrounded by the rubble.

Slowly, timidly, the heart approached the former enclosure. It came closer to the girl, treading carefully over splinters. It sat. The girl, with trembling hands, reached out and touched the heart. And in that moment she realized. They must become friends. 

Girl and Heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a heart. The heart was ugly. It yelled profanities and wanted bad things. The heart was polluting the girl, and made her want bad things too. It poisoned her. One day, a person told her about a place where she could get a new heart. So she met with the Great Surgeon, and he did an operation on the old heart. Afterwards, her heart was different, new. This heart wanted to do good things. And it didn’t yell at her and make her feel bad. The girl was happy.

Later the girl moved countries. And her heart was sad. It was ripped away from all its other heart friends, and its home country. So the heart kicked and pounded and screamed loudly. It yelled, crying out for its friends. The girl heard, and shuddered in fear. This heart, apparently, was reverting back to the old one. Yelling and screaming. So quickly she grabbed a rope and gagged the heart’s mouth. Maybe if it stopped yelling it wouldn’t become ugly like the old heart.

Time passed, and the girl occasionally let the heart take the gag off its mouth, as long as it didn’t talk about that other country.

A well-meaning friend gave the girl a book about hearts and how to take care of them. The girl accepted gladly, since her heart was starting to behave strangely, flitting off and looking more at guys.

Then the girl discovered a shocking truth: “All hearts are deceitful and evil. Even if they look nice and new, they WILL rebel. You must train them or else they will go crazy and destroy you.” Wary, the girl looked at her heart. And decided that putting it in chains would be a good way to keep herself safe.

She also discovered that guys liked to steal hearts, so she built a fence around hers. That was a good thing, because it also kept the heart from going too crazy.

Frustrated, the heart started pulling at its chains, and begging to be let free. It smashed itself against the wall. All the clamour and banging gave the girl a headache. The heart looked at her, forlorn, and tried to convince her that it would be good.

So the girl let her heart out for a bit of free time, just an hour every day. But then, the heart started running after a guy. Disgusted that the heart had betrayed her, she gave it a good whipping and put it back in its enclosure. She vowed never to let it out again.

So the heart devised ways to escape. It dug under the fence. So the girl laid down a concrete floor. It chipped away at the gate. So the girl put more padlocks on. It even tried to climb the fence, so the girl created a wire roof.

Still the heart paced back and forth, whining and, when the gag was off, begging to be let off.

The girl had a genius idea. She began to limit the heart’s diet. She gave it only what it barely needed. The heart calmed down, and spent its days lying in the corner. When the heart murmured complaints, she would give it pictures of rich food, chocolate, pie, fresh fruit and curries. That made the heart drool a little, and kept it occupied. Occasionally she would give the heart ice-cream, or strawberries, or cookies.

Satisfied, now that her heart no longer made a fuss, and sat quietly in its cage, the girl settled down to her life.

But one day she went into the enclosure to give her heart its daily bread and water, but the heart didn’t even twitch. She went over to it, and saw that it was covered in festering sores. So she called up the Great Surgeon – he would know what to do.

He listened to the symptoms, then told the girl the bad news: Her heart was dying, and needed his intervention right away, or else there was no hope. Promptly, he got in the car, and drove to the girl’s place to save her heart.