heart's swing

“Heart’s swing. O so securely fastened

to what invisible bough? Who, who gave you that push,

so that you swung me up into the leaves?

How close I was to the fruit, delectable. But not-to-remain

is this moment’s essence. Only the closeness….”

            -- excerpt from an unnamed poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s like walking a tightrope—trying to will my body to maintain balance, focus, and the exhilaration of keeping momentum atop such an un-sturdy foundation. I hoped I would be strong enough to never come down from the high I felt in New Mexico, on all those southwestern highways, throughout those blessed six weeks of rehabilitation, rejuvenation, and exploration. I wanted that serenity I achieved to be long-lasting. But my heart’s swing keeps plunging back toward the hard dirt of earth; swooping upward; then plunging again.

The first day back at work was deadening; I felt taken captive—the dial of my intellect set back to pause, the peacefulness of my mind sent a-flurry. But my heart did, metaphorically, keep beating. It ached with sadness, not wanting to return to the same old routine; yet it also pulsed with hopefulness—certain that it could swing itself back to those heights—at least at times, if not with permanency.

On day four, optimism fell from the sky as well. I spent hours conducting an investigation—minute by minute unfolding layers of an unbelievable and dreadful story. My favorite new staff member, someone whom I and the rest of my team found impressively inspiring, proved to be a crook. He’d been taking money from us for months, lying expertly through both tears and a dazzling smile. He’d opened up to me to blind me, I understood now. He’d breached my trust in a dramatic way, and he’d self-sabotaged, forcing me to fire someone I otherwise thought was outstanding at his job. For both I was unfathomably angry. He’d also introduced me to a new level of worry, as it had to be some serious desperation that would cause a person to steal from children, which is what stealing from my particular employer really is. Thus he’d also generated for me a consuming anxiety. And he’d added his full-time job to my already overloaded plate. My second week back proved to be one of the most exhausting of my work life.

Week three began on a gorgeous Sunday, the temperature in the 60s, the sun crisp in the air, me and a friend happy to hike the foothills for hours, idle our time away at the high point, my heart’s swing frozen momentarily at the peak of its arch as I found zen again overlooking the ocean and bay, the city and east bay, the hovering prowess of Mt. Diablo. I arrived home feeling well again—only to get a phone call, one of life’s most dreaded phone calls. My mom was nearly crying, letting me know that Grandpa was declining quickly and would not last but a few more days. He’d gotten pneumonia and shingles three weeks earlier, and now he was surviving on morphine. The nurse said he’d stopped eating. My grandmother said he would die that night.

He waited until the morning, until his three living children had all arrived. At the nurse’s ushering, they and my grandmother left the room for a short walk; when they returned, he’d ceased breathing. My mother saw a dead body for the first time in her life. My mother, always daddy’s little girl, saw the dead body of her father and wished with all her might to not have to let him go.

I arrived the next evening. I missed all the story-telling and half of my relatives, and I left my grandmother after just a three-day visit. But oh did my heart rebound during those few days with her, this old lady who has shown me the most unconditional love of my life. This magical old lady who shooed me out the door after a not-long-enough visit because she was excited for what I had to do the next day, and the one after that.

The first day back from my grandmother’s I went to the doctor—the infertility specialist—and I got started on the process of becoming a single mom. Right now I’m in the process of getting loads of tests done to make sure my body can nurture a child; right now is a time of patience, and of unpredictability, yet it feels undeniably certain. I am going to be a mother, one way or another. This is no longer something I’m going to do; it’s something I am actively working on. My heart’s swing has flung itself back toward the sky.

The second day back I went to dim sum with two people who once interviewed me for my dream job—and who spent five hours that day trying to woo me into considering it again. Right now I’m in the phase of waiting and seeing; I told them I was absolutely interested, and now they’re going to the mat for me, proposing the idea to their fellow board members. Right now is a time of patience, and of unpredictability, yet it feels undeniably hopeful. I may get to have my dream job; even if I don’t, there are two people out there who think I’m phenomenal and are dying to have me run their show. My heart’s swing has flung itself further upward, now trying to grasp onto a cloud.

It’s most likely that the swing will fall again; most likely that I will drop from the tight rope at least some of the times I tread across it. But I am grateful for all this heart swing activity. I am grateful to have back the emotional life without which I had feared I had learned to live.