Her solitary heart.
She is bigger in her capacity to love than most other hearts she knows.
She can love those who hurt her. Especially those hearts, because she can feel their pain, pulsating through their battle-weary bodies.
She can love those who wish her ill. Because she knows it comes from a place of their own hurt and they are still doing only the best that they can in this moment. In every moment.
She can love those who judge her. They don’t know her story. They only see what they want to see. What they choose to see. Or what they can only see from the filter of their lens.
She loves her own heart and soul with a fierceness, a protectiveness, that surprises her now. Because she works hard every day to remain unguarded, but she is still picky about who she chooses to allow in.
Only the most authentic souls, the most genuine hearts will be granted entrance into the sacred chambers of her heart.
She feels deep love for everyone, but saves the deepest, most giving part of her heart for those who have earned it. Those who have shown her their own vulnerability. Their own hearts.
They know she needs more. Requires more from them. As they do her.
And in the moment she feels her heart bursting open, she places her hands over it and whispers softly to her, “It’s okay, love. I got you.”
She is feeling alone in isolation.
Her solitary heart wishing for more.
She wishes she were more of an island, like the warrior soul heart she knows.
She wishes she didn’t crave true and deep connection more than most…or so it seems.
She enjoys her aloneness, her independence, her freedom. So much so that she doesn’t often feel lonely. But she does desire connection. And oh, how she wishes she didn’t.
She enjoys doing things alone, but in these isolated times, she doesn’t have the privilege of taking herself to the movies, or enjoying a solo dinner date.
Instead she finds her solitary heart wishing she could meet her best friend for socially-distanced drinks in the park, soaking up the sun and each other’s company.
She wishes for a walking partner who would jump at the chance to share her favorite walking path with her. Holding hands. Or even just chatting as buddies following the same path.
Her solitary heart misses lying next to someone who understands her heart, feeling his rhythmic breathing as her head rises and falls with his chest. His hand playing with her hair — but never her heart — while she drifts off to sleep.
Her solitary heart wonders if she is alone in feeling this way.
Wonders if those who are surrounded — or irritated — by loved ones in their home-shelters, understand that gift. The gift of another there to support them even as they tweak them.
Her solitary heart wishes she enjoyed television more because sometimes she craves the company, but just can’t stand the noise.
She is grateful for the comfort that words offer her. Those of her writer soul friends. And her own disjointed, rambling offerings that sometimes make sense only to her.
Offered only to a treasured few.
But expanding in its need for more.
And soothing its gorgeous self in the meantime.
With self-care. Reassuring words. Self-love. And gentle reminders that this too shall pass.