The Heart's Journey Home

by Debra Highland

What if we could see the internal landscape of the human heart? What if it were possible to determine the effectiveness and peace of our journey here upon the earth, just by being aware of two roads unseen: one the path of least resistance, the one to which we most naturally gravitate as we grow into roles and expectations, and the other, the one we started out on as children, the path that leads to authentic, the place, the only place our heart can be one with itself, at home, at peace in gratitude? What if we suddenly became aware that each new day was about the choice whether to remain on that path, once aware, or to return to the one that once again moved us further away from our heart and closer to a false self, an image we have built or others have built for us? What if every single day we could see a host of foot soldiers on the hillside of our heart and realize they wait for us to choose before they move. This is the drama I have seen in my own heart.

Perhaps, though, you are one of those lucky women who have never struggled with being authentic, you've held onto that true part of you past childhood and all the way through your adult journey. I commend you and wish you all the best on your continued journey. You may still find something here of interest. But to those of you, like me, who lost yourself many years ago through time and expectations, I want to just share how I went looking for authentic and how authentic, since then, has been knocking at my door each and every day. So take a moment. Have a cup of coffee or a nice glass of red wine and consider... look closely. Listen. Can you see and hear?

Any day - Sunrise

Legions wait on the edge of dawn, holy, determined, ready to uphold and support yet again, the choice for humility, clarity, authenticity...ultimately, the way home. The air is clean, crisp, and ripe with hope. Truth and Love lead the many gathered with the strength of all that matters in the seen and unseen world.
"Will she choose today?" Love asks, watching the glow of sunrise spread across his companion's face.
"Only the day can tell, the hours and moments," Truth replies. "She is comfortable there, with fear. She was doing well, but stopped listening to us, seeing us. At least she is now aware of us, of the way, and that is the reason she struggles so."
"But she knows she needs to return, to learn from this experience and return to herself, her heart."
"Yes, at least she knows, as many yet do not know, she knows, but what is it they say out there?" Truth smiles.
"Yes, ignorance is bliss; at least it is without such conflict."
"Yes at least." The first rays of sunlight now paint the sky, splashing streaks of deep amber and violet.

I am a single mother of three grown kids, wonderful kids, of course, just like yours. I'm a substitute teacher and a writer with a crazy imagination. I always take comfort, though, in the quote I found a while back, by Albert Einstein, "Imagination is everything." (There you see? I'd think to myself, back then, before.) Now I usually say it aloud, especially to my kids who like to laugh at my off-the-wall ideas and frantic writing which goes mostly into a laundry basket beside the computer. The basket's full.

"What have you got there?" Truth asks Love.
"Oh it is a piece of hope, I think. An indication that perhaps she will loosen her grip today and let fear take its rightful place behind her. It's something she wrote and threw away."
"Threw away where? Where did you find it?"
"I found it in the corner of her heart, with many other crumpled pieces of many other things." Love replies.
"So then she is at least writing, she hasn't given up, although it may seem so. Her captivity by fear is so strong" Truth asserts. "May I?" he asks reaching for the woman's piece of hope.
"Of course."

Gift of Today

I opened the gift of today and tomorrow took wing. Yesterday's despair slid into the corner. I touched today and held it carefully, viewing it from all angles, admiring the way the light shone through, the way the dark spots turned to brilliant color, the way life entered the most remote parts. This morning I opened the gift of today. At first I thought: This is like every other day, this is no gift. This is the same piece of eternity which I opened yesterday. But then, suddenly, I saw with new eyes that today, this today, with all its hopes and dreams and disappointments will not return. Once gone, it is gone forever and the only thing about this gift that will remain are the lessons I allow to take root in my heart. The lessons which I use to open a new day tomorrow. And the next day. They are, all of them, unique and precious gifts, but only if the eyes can see. Only if the hand can touch and ears can hear from the perspective of yesterday's regrets.

Here again a holy moment presented itself. Here again she stood on the ledge of life and held the gift of today.

"Wonderful! So she can see us yet again. She knows that we wait." Truth smiles.

I am also the oldest of five children, the first-born of a very sincere, loving, albeit perfectionist minister father and I became the epitome in young adulthood by marrying into the ministry as well. They call it the "double bubble," the preacher's kid, the preacher's wife. It meant living the examined, closely scrutinized life from childhood and onward. Well meaning, religious people seemed always ready to set a standard for each of these roles and so it went. Somewhere along the way, in all that living up to such expectations, (which had nothing to do with true faith) I disappeared and a very unreal, inauthentic person emerged. I always acted like everything was okay and the act was quite believable (probably the reason I am so drawn to the theatre), but I began to think that an act should be reserved for the stage.

"Yes, she knows that we wait," Love replies. "She has an understanding, I think, an awareness, but fear is so powerful even in the presence of understanding."
"She progresses, though. I heard it rumored among us yesterday that she has removed some of the chains; the weight is not as heavy. She smiled and then, she found laughter too again, and took a small step toward home, her truth and authenticity once more. Even a small step is a step."
"Yes, so it seems, but we must wait for time to tell. We will advance to support her when she allows us. It is all in what she chooses."
The day wakes, chasing the night. The colors of the universe blaze with brilliance on the horizon of this woman's heart.

This seemed to be the beginning of some kind of quiet riot, an internal struggle to actually live what I thought, not just think it. Needless to say, through the years I always longed for a pulpit, and when I approached Jill back in December about writing of my experience, most recently the winning of a contest by Toronto fashion designer Linda Lundstrom, regarding being an authentic woman, she graciously accepted my offer. The truth is, I was hungry again to find others out there on the road, the same road leading home, home to authentic, and home to my true self. The writing competition had set me firmly on the road I had years ago decided to sojourn. I had had my quiet riot and my reasonable revolution, but now... now I needed to again stoke and feed the hungry fire that I had allowed to dwindle to embers in the past two years. So thank you, Jill, for this opportunity, for inviting me here today.

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