So much held in the heart
in a lifetime. So much held in a
heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We
are utterly open with no one in the end -
not mother and father, not wife or husband,
not love, not child, not friend. We open windows
to each but we live alone in the house of the heart.
Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be
so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed
heart.
in a lifetime. So much held in a
heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We
are utterly open with no one in the end -
not mother and father, not wife or husband,
not love, not child, not friend. We open windows
to each but we live alone in the house of the heart.
Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be
so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed
heart.
When young we think there will come one person who will
savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know
this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are
bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by
time and will, patched and force of character, yet
fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter
how ferocious the defense and how many
bricks you bring to the wall. You can
brick up your heart as stout and
tight and hard and cold and
impregnable as you possibly
can and down it comes
in an instant, felled by
[someone's] second
glance, a child's
apple breath,
the shatter
of glass
in the
road,
the
words
I
have something
to tell you, a cat with
a broken spine dragging
itself into the forest to die,
the brush of your mother's
hand in the thicket of your hair,
the memory of your father's voice...
savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know
this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are
bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by
time and will, patched and force of character, yet
fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter
how ferocious the defense and how many
bricks you bring to the wall. You can
brick up your heart as stout and
tight and hard and cold and
impregnable as you possibly
can and down it comes
in an instant, felled by
[someone's] second
glance, a child's
apple breath,
the shatter
of glass
in the
road,
the
words
I
have something
to tell you, a cat with
a broken spine dragging
itself into the forest to die,
the brush of your mother's
hand in the thicket of your hair,
the memory of your father's voice...
Brian Doyle
Joyas Voladoras
Excerpt from - One Long River of Song:
Notes on Wonder
Joyas Voladoras
Excerpt from - One Long River of Song:
Notes on Wonder
(Brian's words, my format)
~
A couple of memories from childhood that warm my heart:
Smelling the aroma of coffee and breakfast wafting from the
kitchen that Mom was making mid morning on vacation days
when we rented a cabin in one of the coves on the lake...
Smelling the aroma of coffee and breakfast wafting from the
kitchen that Mom was making mid morning on vacation days
when we rented a cabin in one of the coves on the lake...
And one of our closer moments with Dad, at the same cabin,
when he took us kids out on the little pier next to the
boathouse at night to point into the night sky, as we clustered
next to him like ducklings, and pointed to the
Big Dipper.
when he took us kids out on the little pier next to the
boathouse at night to point into the night sky, as we clustered
next to him like ducklings, and pointed to the
Big Dipper.
~
Art - Mystic Meandering
Brian Doyle's stories/essays were, for him, a mystical project
born of both joy and desperation - embracing humanity.
born of both joy and desperation - embracing humanity.
"We're only here for a minute.
We're here for a little window.
And to use that time to catch and share
shards of light and laughter and grace
seems to me the great story."
We're here for a little window.
And to use that time to catch and share
shards of light and laughter and grace
seems to me the great story."
Brian Doyle
